


Evol

by Sketched_Ink



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Childhood Friends, Complete, Dark, Elements of Season Two, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Haly's Circus, Insanity, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Underage Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Only a smidge of Nolan here, Pining, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Romance, Season One Continuation from Episode 16, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma, Word Games, alfred is awesome, childhood crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketched_Ink/pseuds/Sketched_Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce's throat closed up, this had been a bad idea. What had he been thinking. "Uh, I was looking for you, actually", he coughed. </p><p>The clown sucked his lower lip in and out of his mouth thoughtfully, "And why would you want to do that?"</p><p>(AU Where Season 2 Episode 3 never happens)</p><p>(Can be read without watching Gotham)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Playing Cards

 

 

The circus was alive and breathing as the clocks in Gotham City struck nine. The late hour didn't stop the bustling crowd gazing up in awe at the stalls around them, however, and the circus strip was more crowded than Time Square on a Saturday.

Hundreds of stands advertising every type of fast food available flashed and swirled in bright colours above their heads, and the smooth smell of sweet popcorn hung low in the air. Performers patrolled the crowds, beautiful women and clowns on stilts who called for attention and pointing all ticket holders towards the glowing big top in the centre of the mass.

Bruce Wayne was enthralled. 

 A giggling clown leant down to place a flyer in Bruce's hand as it unicycled past, and it pulled a face for the boy's amusement whilst it careered backwards into the throng. The young billionaire smiled, and glanced down at his wrist.

"Alfred", Bruce called out. The man in question turned to face him,

"Yes Master Bruce?". Bruce pointed to his watch, "We need to head over to the big top now, or we'll risk missing the performance", Alfred glanced down at his own watch, "Right then, Master Bruce, we'll head over immediately. Do you want snacks before we go in?". Bruce shook his head, peering down at the flyer, "Thank you Alfred, but I'm alright". Displayed in large gaudy letters across the top of the flyer were the words, "HALEY'S CIRCUS", and beneath a list of the performers. 

Bruce walked along behind his butler, absorbed in reading the flyer. Head down, he walked straight into the solid chest of someone else. He was immediately hit with the unexpected, sweet smell of peppermint, "Oh, uh, excuse me", he stuttered, "I wasn't looking where I was going". 

Bruce raised his head, intent on a proper apology. The man was wearing a clown mask that covered the upper half of his face, but the rest of his clothes were relatively normal; a purple shirt, black blazer and brown suit trousers. Cold, uninterested eyes stared down from the darkness behind the mask, and Bruce swallowed. They were the most vivid green he had ever seen. The clown just looked down at him for a moment, saying nothing, before walking in the direction he'd originally been going in. Bruce stared after his retreating back for a moment, before running to catch Alfred up. 

The big top was packed. Bruce and Alfred had managed to steal seats near the front directly opposite the curtains, but the noise and smells all contained in the tent were almost overwhelming. When the lights dimmed, and the crowd hushed, a spotlight beamed down on a short, stout man standing in the centre of the ring. Bruce peered curiously over the heads of the people in front as he started to speak,

 "Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to Haley's Circus!". 

The ring master's voice filled the tent and sent an expectant thrum across the audience, "I must warn you now, these acts are neither safe nor fake, and anything you see in this establishment must not be repeated by anyone except trained professionals". 

The ringmaster's voice quietened slightly, and the crowd leant in to catch his next words, "The performers you see today will be participating in extremely dangerous activities", he paused and looked up from under the brim of his hat, "Where even the slightest drop in concentration could lead to death. So we ask you not to cheer or clap during any acts unless directed to by the performer". 

A slow, deep drum beat started off from behind the curtain, and all eyes were glued to the man onstage as the beat started to speed up. "Enough said, that aside, I hope you are all settled down and ready for the show! First up, we have a real treat for the citizens of Gotham City tonight, the incredible Antonio, our world-famous strongman is available to perform for the first time in Gotham for half a decade! Please, show some support for  _Antonio_!". 

The spotlight dropped, and the circus was plunged into darkness once more, before a bare-chested, muscular man with a curling moustache strode through the curtain, flexing his biceps to the delight of the crowd. Bruce settled down to watch, enjoying the comedy of the strongman, but with his mind on his training sessions tomorrow morning.

Most of the acts passed in a blur of bright lights and the cheers of the crowd, and Bruce was just relaxing into the atmosphere, when a tall man in a clown mask and a purple shirt walked on stage with a wicker basket under each arm. The crowd murmured in confusion (the leaflet advertised that it would be the circus Elephant act next), as clearly, something had changed. 

The ringleader stepped on stage to introduce the act, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm afraid the Elephants have had to be delayed until the next act, as we have a very special treat for you all now". He placed a hand on the shoulder of the masked man, "This specific act isn't even on the itinerary, as we weren't expecting it to be ready for tonight, but luckily for you, it was perfected in time". The two men onstage exchanged a few quiet words before the ringleader nodded, and turned back to the crowd, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome our newest act, the Valeska snake dancers!".

The curtain opened again, and a beautiful, slim lady walked through, dressed in layered purple silk, and laced in tiny golden bells. She was carrying a golden flute, and she walked right to the edge of the ring, before placing the instrument to her lips, and pulling from it a long haunting note that quickly developed into a complex melody. 

One of the wicker baskets rocked on stage for a moment, before the lid slowly lifted, and a diamond head peered up from the darkness. The crowd muttered uncomfortably as a python began to uncoil from inside the basket. It was ridiculously long, and it was almost a magic trick in itself when the whole of the reptile was out of its confines. A black tongue flickered in the air, as equally black eyes searched the crowd. Bruce shivered as its eyes passed over him, and a nervous titter passed through the crowd as a higher note pierced the tent.

The snake turned its head towards the man in the clown mask. Almost too slowly, the animal slid across the floor towards his legs, and the hairs on the end of Bruce's neck stood on end. 

How the man just stood there as the creature approached was incredible. 

The Python reached the bottom of the clown's trousers, but didn't stop there, it slowly slithered up his leg, circling the limb and crinkling the fabric as it climbed. The man just stared into the crowd as the snake crawled up to his shoulders and curled around his throat, but the nervous titters increased in volume. 

The music picked up in pace, and the snake lifted its head to look the clown in the eyes, before opening its mouth to display its long fangs. The music stopped suddenly, and the entire tent held its breath. The masked man just stared back into its eyes, and opened his own mouth wide, displaying white teeth. The snake hissed, before turning away from the man, and staring towards the other basket. The beautiful woman brought the flute to her lips once more, and a different song began to drift through the air of the big top. 

The other, slightly smaller basket on the floor had been completely forgotten by everyone in the tent, but the second it jolted all eyes were fixed on the wicker. The lid lifted more quickly than on the other basket, and a much smaller, pitch black snake slid down its side before pooling on the floor. The crowd watched as the foot-long viper also fixed its gaze on green eyes, and began a quick approach towards the clown. His mouth was still wide open, the back of his throat visible to Bruce as a spotlight fixed on his prone form. The small black snake scaled his body quickly, sliding across the tight coils around the masked man's throat and up the body of the Python. 

The smaller snake coiled itself around the other's head, extending its body into the air between itself and the masked man. There was a hush through the crowd, then the black viper closed the distance between the man's plush lips and itself in seconds. Its head brushed his open lips almost obscenely, before sliding into his mouth. The crowd was silent. 

The clown closed his mouth, and the other snake uncoiled itself from around his neck and dropped to the floor. It slid towards its basket, but all eyes were still on the masked man and his rippling cheeks. The music once again stopped, and the man smirked, before opening his mouth.

The black head of the viper peered out, it's tongue tasting the air. The clown raised a hand to his lips, and the whole crowd collectively let out a tense breath as the snake slid from the pink cavity to the man's palm. He walked towards the second basket, and carefully placed the viper back into its confines. As soon as the lid was on, and the man was back upright the crowd burst into applause. 

Bruce was clapping so hard pins and needles shot through his palms, he was absolutely in awe. Most people were clapping for the performance, but Bruce was clapping for a different reason. He wanted to be that brave. 

He wanted to be that calm and composed staring down danger.

He needed to know that man.

"Alfred, I'll be right back", Bruce muttered, eyes never leaving the masked clown, even as the audience hollered and clapped. Alfred grabbed his arm, "Where are you going?", he whispered. Bruce glanced at his carer, "I need to get some fresh air, I'll be back before the end of the show", Alfred grimaced but let go of his sleeve. "Don't get in too much trouble".

Bruce ran through the bright night towards the back of the big top. He'd left just as the performers were exiting the stage, and hoped that if he got there fast enough, he'd be able to catch the clown before he disappeared into the clutch of caravans. The light of the back exit was illuminating the grass not ten meters from Bruce when he was stopped.

"Where do you think you're going?", a sharp nasally voice cut out from the shadows, and Bruce stopped in his tracks. Another, lower voice spoke up,

"Little posh boys shouldn't wander around at night, you never know who's out there", it laughed. Two men in overalls stepped out from the shadows; a tall, skinny, slightly balding man in his early thirties, and a shorter, fatter man with a flattened nose. The tall one laughed nasally, "That watch looks expensive, almost expensive enough to buy your way out of here, maybe?", he mused nastily. Bruce swallowed and stepped back.

"Don't you two, ah, shit heads, have some grunt work to do?", a low, dangerous rumbling emitted from the dark shadow behind the two thugs. He was outlined in light from the back exit of the tent, but that didn't seem to stop the circus hands from recognising him. Both men shrunk away from the man like shadows from the sun, "Shit, it's the freak, let's get out of here", Skinny growled, then turned and slinked away. The fat man waddled after him with haste, glancing back at the shadowed man every now and then fearfully.

"Thank you", Bruce squinted up at the man, trying to make out a face. The man turned his head slightly, the light revealing a hooded green eye staring down at the boy with curiosity. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run off in the dark?", the clown slowly surveyed the area, before flicking his eyes back on the younger boy, Bruce swallowed, "I don't have one". The clown smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, "I wish I didn't".

He leaned against a circus barrel, all the lean lines of his body stretching out like a cat, "So, what brings a privileged young man like you to a place like this?".

Bruce's throat closed up, this had been a bad idea. What had he been thinking. "Uh, I was looking for you, actually", he coughed, and the clown sucked his lower lip in and out of his mouth thoughtfully, "And why would you want to do that?", he smiled nastily, "What makes you think I'm any better than them?". 

Bruce shook his head, "You're not like them, I can tell", the clown pushed his lower lip out, "Sure", he grinned, "So what can someone like me, do for someone like you?". Bruce set his jaw and stared up at the masked man's eyes, "I want you to teach me to be unafraid, like you were with the snakes", he ground out. 

The masked man just blinked at him for a moment, before cracking up, "Y-you want me to what? Teach you to be unafraid?", he started to laugh again. 

Bruce stood there, face red, "I want to be able to look after myself!". The clown suddenly stopped laughing, his voice was lower, more serious, "And how can I help you become, ah, fearless?". Bruce's eyes darted up and back to the floor before speaking, "You, you were completely unafraid", he muttered, "Even with that snake in your mouth, and again when you chased off those two. How do you do that?". 

The clown was quiet for a moment, "Fearlessness?", he said huskily, "It's something that comes with practice". The man fluidly pushed himself off the barrel and crouched down to look straight into Bruce's pupils, inches between them, "Or you become the one that's feared". 

The younger boy peered curiously into the dark pools, "I'm not afraid of you", he stated.

The masked man huffed a laugh and fell backwards into his backside, "Interesting. So, you want me to teach you how to be scary? It's not something that everyone can learn", he mused, eyeing his nails expectantly. Bruce swallowed the bait, "I'm not everybody", he said firmly, before a rush of words poured out of his mouth, "If you teach me, I'll learn! I'll pay you!", he got ahold of his babbling, feeling embarrassed, "Uh, if you want".

"I don't want your money", the man crossed his legs, and held a finger out in front of himself teasingly, "I will teach you though, because you're interesting, but you, will owe me, a favour", he said lasciviously. Bruce carefully sat down and crossed his legs, "Deal", he stuck his hand out. The man eyed the offered contract, before slowly extending a slim hand. Before it touched Bruce's, he pulled it back, and with a smirk, spat a glob of spit into his palm, then slapped it into the younger boy's grip, "Deal".

In one smooth motion, the clown rose to his feet and pulled Bruce to his from their clasped hands. "The name's Jerome, by the way, Jerome Valeska", Jerome grinned widely, dropping Brice's hand and pulling off his mask. Bruce glanced up to take in a shock of red hair atop a carefully chiselled face, the green eyes hooded beneath heavy eyebrows, and a slender nose leading down to a pair of perfectly full, red lips, "Bruce Wayne", he replied slowly.

"Nice to meet you, Brucie", Jerome pulled the name from his lips like silk, "I'm expecting you in class bright and early tomorrow morning, 9 am on the dot, on top of the hill five minutes west of here".

Jerome smirked, before leaning down  so his face was inches from the younger boy's, "Sleep well, Master Bruce", and he was gone.

Bruce stood there for a moment, before the roar of the crowd snapped him from his daze, and he thought of Alfred.

"That was a long breath of fresh air, Master Bruce. I hope it helped", Alfred murmured when Bruce reclaimed his seat. "I feel much better, thank you Alfred", Bruce replied, eyes fixed on a shock of red hair that was lounging in the shadows at the back of the stage, clear green eyes watching only him.

 

•

 

Bruce didn't sleep much that night. 

He lay awake staring at the curving decorations along his ceiling, thinking about Jerome. He was interesting, Bruce hadn't met anyone like that before. 

It wasn't scary, but it was raw, almost dangerous, and Bruce was fascinated. By the time the first rays of sunlight stretched across the room, Bruce was already up and dressed.

Running on a few hours of sleep, the young Wayne shovelled cereal into his mouth and downed his juice in five minutes. "If you are trying to experience the effects of indigestion first hand, Master Bruce, you are going about it correctly", Alfred said dryly, watching the boy under his charge, "Do we have plans today?". Bruce shrugged, "Just going for a walk", Alfred nodded seriously, "Down by the circus I take it?", his tone became harder, "Be careful, Master Bruce. Not everyone there is as delightful off stage as they are on it". 

The boy paused in his mission to pull his coat on as quickly as possible, "I know Alfred, thank you. I should be back for supper". Before Alfred could get another word in, the kitchen door was swinging shut, the quick patter of running feet getting softer as Bruce left. "That must be some damn special girl", Alfred muttered to himself in amusement, shaking his head.

Bruce was early. Two hours early, in fact. He tapped his feet impatiently against the tree stump he was sitting on as he stared impatiently at his watch. The shadows grew longer as the hours passed, and at ten, he was starting to worry that his teacher wasn't going to make an appearance.  

After another fifteen minutes, Bruce angrily scrambled to his feet, glaring at the stump he'd been sitting on before giving it a vicious kick.

"Whoa! What did that stump ever do to you?", a familiar, amused voice called from behind him. The young Wayne spun on his heel, before pointing his finger accusingly towards the approaching man, "You're late", he growled, "You said 9 am sharp". 

Jerome shrugged, "Did I? I thought I said 10?", his lips trembled slightly as they fought a smirk, and Bruce's eyes narrowed, "You didn't". Jerome smiled widely, "You're right, I lied. Lesson one, don't always tell the truth". Bruce frowned, "That's not going to make me fearless", Jerome shrugged, and sat down on the stump, crossing one leg over the other. "I decided if I was going to teach you how to be fearless, I'd better teach you what to do with it". Bruce's eyebrows scrunched together, the morals grating on his conscience, "Okay", he muttered uneasily. 

"Okay! Lesson 2, fake it", Jerome enunciated, hands clasped over his knee. Bruce slumped, "I don't want to fake being unafraid, I want to  _be_  unafraid". Jerome shrugged again, "Brucie, I'm afraid for people like you,  faking it's the closest you'll get for a while yet", Bruce bristled, but Jerome continued, "Don't get your knickers in a twist, it's just as effective. People fear those who don't fear, and if they think you're unafraid, you might as well be". Still annoyed, Bruce breathed deeply to try and calm himself down. Jerome grinned, "I want to get a grasp of your current ability, so we're gonna have a little pre-test. I'm a big, scary man who's twice your size, and you think I'm going to attack you, go!".

 Bruce dropped into a fighting crouch like Alfred had taught him, hands raised in front of his body. Jerome looked horrified, "What are you doing! I said he was twice your size!", he dragged a hand over his face, before speaking once more, "You have two options, run", a cloud passed over his face, "Or make him run".

Bruce looked at him blankly, and Jerome have him a black look before  huffing and pulling himself to his feet. "Fine. Role reversal. You're the big, threatening man, and I'm you".

Jerome looked down at the ground, pushing his hands into his pockets, and taking a few breaths. 

It wasn't Jerome that looked up again.

Two narrow, black pools of darkness stared out from within shaded, lime eyes, and the pair of full lips beneath them slowly curled upwards like flayed skin, impossibly wide.  _ **Danger**_ , Bruce registered, all his senses screaming at him to run.

"Ta dah!", before Bruce could run, Jerome was back, fake smile spread wide over his lips, "That's how to scare someone". Something glinted sadly from behind Jerome's eyes, something dangerous, but it was gone in a moment. "That wasn't you", Bruce whispered, staring at the older boy, Jerome shrugged, not looking at Bruce, "Who cares, what matters is that you have a bad-ass teacher for all this. Okay, take two!".

By the time evening rolled around, Bruce was tired, hungry and ready to punch Jerome, hard. "Okay enough!", Bruce yelled, dragging himself out of the dirt. After the intimidation techniques, Jerome had moved onto fighting, and he fought dirty. From the first minute, Bruce had been getting used to being knocked on his ass, and had a scattering of bruises blooming down his ribs. 

Jerome crouched down, "What? Already?", he smirked, "Fine, fine. We'll take a break". Bruce was convinced at least part of the other boy enjoyed knocking him on his ass repeatedly. 

Bruce dragged himself across the floor to lean against the stump, "I'm exhausted", he sighed heavily, examining a particularly nasty scrape down the back of his hand. Jerome peered over curiously, "Ouch, did little old me do that?", Bruce flexed his fingers, "Yes, when I hit the ground the fourth time, or was it the fifth?". 

Jerome pulled an arm across his forehead, sweat absorbing into the sleeve of his shirt, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a white and red polka dot handkerchief alongside a strong whiff of peppermint. Bruce blinked at it in disbelief, "You carry a handkerchief?", Jerome raised an eyebrow, "Yeah, luckily for you". Jerome reached across Bruce to grab his hand, "Hold still", and began to wind the handkerchief around the cut.  Bruce winced as the polka dots around the cut disappeared under the crimson spread of his blood, "There", Jerome sat back with a satisfied sigh, "Aren't you lucky I had that". 

Bruce looked down to examine the gift, "The stitches are wonky", he frowned, before realisation dawned on his face, "you made this?". Jerome shrugged, looking offended, "Yeah, but the stitches are wonky", he muttered bitchily. 

Bruce laughed, "I wasn't trying to offend you, it's really good, do you make lots?", Jerome shuffled down in the dirt so he was lying on his back looking up, "Nope, I've made two". Bruce's head whipped down to the now blood-stained handkerchief, "I'm so sorry, I've ruined it", Jerome shook his head, "Nope, you made it better". 

Bruce tilted his head curiously to look down at the man. He couldn't ever wrap his head around what Jerome was going to say or do next, he was unpredictable, an anomaly. "Thank you", Brice said eventually, his voice breaking the evening silence. 

"You're welcome", Jerome replied, staring off into the distance. They were facing the wrong way to watch the sunset, but that didn't matter, they just watched the blackness slowly encompass the blue until it seemed there was nothing but night, then the stars appeared.

"I'd better go back", Bruce said eventually, his back cracking when he sat up after so long in that position. Jerome hummed, and Bruce continued, "Same time, same place tomorrow?", he suggested. Jerome turned his head, features mostly obscured by the dark, "Sure. Don't be afraid tonight, Bruce, you're as safe down there as you are up here". 

Bruce chuckled, taking it lightly, "I'll be fine, I'm not scared", he turned and walked down the hill, the night clinging to his back as he walked towards the bright city lights. Jerome watched from the darkness, and when Bruce glanced back before disappearing into the lights, he knew the younger boy couldn't find him in the blackness.

 

•

 

Bruce was at the stump at 8.30 the next day, but he settled down against the wood, fully expecting Jerome to be late again. 

"Now that's commitment", Bruce whirled around, searching for the source of the older boy's voice, "Early two days in a row?".

"Where are you?", Bruce yelled, spinning. Just as he was about to go off on a search, an apple core hit the top of his head, "You hoo!", Bruce glared upwards, spying Jerome balancing on one of the branches, swinging his legs. Bruce just glowered as Jerome slid down, and when he got to the bottom, Jerome wiped his hands on his trousers before fixing his pupil a stern look, "But you were earlier yesterday". 

"You can't accuse me of that, you were late yesterday!", Bruce accused, finger pointing viciously. Jerome placed a hand on his chest, as if he was offended, "No I wasn't", he rolled his eyes, "You just didn't notice me". 

Bruce bristled, "Okay! Fine! Let's just get on with the teaching". Jerome raised his eyebrows before wandering off towards the stump. When he was comfortable, one long leg crossed over the other, he began to talk. "So, yesterday was the basics. We'll do that every day, until you don't even have to concentrate anymore, and it becomes instinctual", he waggled his brows, "However, for me to actually make you fearless, I have to know what your greatest fear is". 

Jerome sat back slightly, face a mockery of self-sacrifice, "So lay it on me, what are you most afraid of? Ghosts? Pedophiles? Spiders?", he paused dramatically, "Evil clowns?". Bruce crossed his arms, "None of those, but the evil clowns comes close". Jerome glanced off to the side  and back to Bruce blankly, "So..?", Bruce shuffled, before mumbling something indistinct. 

"What was that?", Jerome gestured wildly, "Did you even say words?". Bruce scowled, "I said, I don't like bats", Jerome's eyebrows pulled together, "That's a pretty girly thing to be afraid of, what, you think they're gonna get caught in your hair?". Bruce's cheeks reddened, "Mind your own business", he growled, and Jerome raised his brows, "Jeez, okay, go change your tampon Brucina". 

Gritting his teeth, Bruce ignored the jibe, "So now you know what I'm afraid of, what can you do about it?". Jerome hummed, watching the clouds, "I was just curious as to what got you into such a tizz, well, and it could help me figure out how to fix whatever's made you so obsessed with 'curing your fear'". Bruce scuffed his shoes into the dirt, "Great, okay let's start", he grumbled. Jerome smirked and got to his feet, "Revision time, show me your best Lesson Two". 

 

•

 

After that, the two would meet two to three times a week, same place, same time, and practice. Eventually, Brice began to improve, Jerome even claimed his intimidation techniques were sparking off warnings in his brain (which he also claimed was almost impossible). The sparring, however, still left much to be desired. Jerome's superior size, strength and speed always ended up with him winning only half a minute into each fight. Bruce was convinced that he was lasting a little longer, though, each session he attended.

Every meeting, Bruce would arrive early, bringing an apple, a book or a newspaper, and wait for Jerome's arrival. It had been a couple of weeks, and Bruce was starting to feel closer to achieving his goal. He felt faster, stronger and more capable, and had started to read the national newspaper.

He liked the stories about lawyers going against the tide and putting away big criminals, or random strangers putting their lives on the line to help others, but most of all, he'd developed an unspoken love for the recently emerging vigilantes around the globe. It felt like all the major cities were beginning to get cleaned up, one figure head leading a revolution on the streets. It reminded him of his father, and Jerome. 

He wanted that for Gotham. He wanted to be able to protect people, like Jerome had protected him, like the lawyers were protecting people. He wanted to stop anyone else losing what he had.

Bruce could hardly wait for his friend to arrive. He wanted to show him the articles, especially the newest one about a rumoured, 'Doctor Occult'. Bruce wasn't convinced the man really was psychic, but he liked what he stood for.

"Whatcha readin'?", Jerome's voice resonated through his left shoulder. Bruce aangled the page slightly so the older boy could read the page, "'Trench-Coated Saviour: Doctor Occult saves little girl'". He snorted, "Doctor Occult? What sort of name is that?", Bruce flicked the top half of the newspaper down, and tucked it under his arm, feeling a bit dejected.

Jerome peered round to see Bruce's frown, "He sounds cool though, just needs a better name", he added. Bruce smiled slightly, "I want to do that, help people". Jerome sat down on the other side of the stump, his back against the younger boy's, "So, I'm like your mentor?", he grinned, "The truth comes out, you just wanted me to train you up to be the next-", he bent over to read the name he'd already forgotten, "-Doctor Occult. You should call me Master Valeska", Bruce elbowed him backwards. 

Jerome chuckled softly, "It must be a good feeling, going around killing bad guys", Bruce squirmed, "I don't know. Doesn't that sort of make you as bad as them?", Jerome raised one eyebrow, "You can't be a superhero without killing the bad guys, you'd never win!".

Bruce rubbed his legs, "What about their family? What if they have kids?", Jerome shrugged, "Some people just deserve to die".

 

•

 

One day, after their session Bruce decided to walk a different route back to Wayne Manor, passing a toy shop he hadn't been in since the death of his parents. It was rather exclusive, selling only the best, handmade items, the highest quality available for Gotham's one percenters. The bouncer on the door looked uncomfortably down at Bruce's muddied clothes, before a glance to his face straightened out any doubts, "Welcome to Geoffrey Star's, Master Wayne", he said gruffly. Bruce nodded, walking past, and trying to ignore the uncomfortable squirming he got whenever anyone spoke differently to him because of his  standing.

He browsed the shelves for a while, before something caught his eye. It was perfect, and Bruce had to have it. He pulled it off the shelf without glancing at the tag and walked to the checkout, "Master Bruce, it's nice to see you in here", the manager ushered the cashier away from the till so he could serve, "Our greatest condolences for your loss". The man lifted Bruce's chosen item and inspected it carefully, "Excellent choice, Master Wayne! Hand carved Agarwood, only five made in the entire world".

 Bruce nodded, pulling out his wallet, "How much?", the manager smiled, "For you? £200, that is a significant discount on its worth, by the way, but only as a gift to one of our most valued and least seen customers". Bruce nodded uncomfortably, this was the other end of the spectrum; bootlicking instead of thick resentment. 

He left the shop as quickly as possible after paying, trying to ignore the bouncer's stare boring holes into his spine.

Bruce tucked the present into the pocket of the hoodie he was to wear tomorrow, inside the handkerchief Jerome had given him nearly a month ago, and on impulse, grabbed an untouched old Christmas gift off his shelves and pushed it in as well. 

 

•

 

Bruce stuck his hand into the pocket of his hoodie, watching the early morning forest, with his fingers playing absent mindedly with Jerome's gift. "What? No apple for your teacher?", Jerome called out from a way down the hill, strolling up with his hands in his jeans. Bruce smiled, "Not exactly", he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket, "I do have something though", and passed it over. Jerome shot him a puzzled look, feeling over the hard shape wrapped inside.

"It's been a while since I've seen this", he paused, "It was a gift, you know", Bruce shrugged, "I wasn't sure, I got you something else just in case though". Jerome sat down, holding the handkerchief tightly, and sending Bruce another long look. 

"You do realise you're meant to open it", Bruce laughed after a tense minute, and for the first time Bruce could have sworn he saw Jerome's cheeks pink slightly. "Just adding to the atmosphere", Jerome smirked quickly, his eyes got that tight look again, then he slowly pulled the corners of the handkerchief away from the Middle. Bruce was so excited he was almost on Jerome's lap as he leaned over to watch his friend's reaction. 

Carefully coiled up inside the handkerchief were two things, a pack of cards and a carved wooden toy snake. The carving was detailed, far more so than the ones bought cheaply in kids toy stores, each notch down either side neatly fit into the pattern carved down its back, and the painting was ridiculously lifelike. The eyes were bottle green glass, carefully hooded underneath heavy brows, and a lipstick red velvet tongue permanently tasting the air protruded from its mouth. 

Jerome said nothing as he carefully allowed the toy snake to slink around his palm and down his fingers, before with an equally delicate hand, he picked up the cards and opened them. Bruce was starting to worry, "Is it too childish? I'm sorry, don't worry, we can pretend it never happened-", he reached for the toys, but Jerome clutched them to his chest, "You can't take back gifts, it's rude", he said hurriedly, turning away from the younger boy slightly, "Or give them back for that matter!", he pulled the blood-free handkerchief from under his presents, and handed it back, the cards and snake still cradled in one arm, eyes suspicious as they eyed Bruce's hand, as if he thought the younger boy was going to make another grab for his new things.

Bruce sat back, trying to keep the satisfied smile from his face, and pocketing the now peppermint smelling handkerchief, "We could play cards, you know, tonight, after training perhaps?". 

Jerome pulled off his slightly patchy jacket and chucked it on the stump, before placing the cards and snake on top of it, "Okay, we'll stop early. Don't that that means I'm going to go easy on you though". 

Jerome's fighting was less vicious that day, he almost let Bruce get a few hits in before knocking him to his ass, and despite his sneaking suspicions that Jerome was being kind instead of Bruce showing instant improvements, he still finished their session feeling more proud of himself than he had the day before. 

The older boy plopped himself down on the ground on one side of the stump, "So. Cards?", he smirked, waving the packet at Bruce. "Yeah, sure. What do you want to play?", Bruce said as he sat down opposite his friend.

They settled on cheat, mostly because Jerome liked the idea that it was about lying. It was fun, despite the fact that Jerome kept lying badly, and trying to use a Joker as a universal card. "Jerome, that's not even a proper card in this game!", Bruce laughed as Jerome tried to put it down on top of a three for the third time that game. Jerome glared, "Of course it's a proper card! It's the most important card in the deck!", Bruce picked up the offending card and placed it firmly back in Jerome's half of the stump, "It's not a card". 

Jerome brandished the smirking Joker next to his face, "This card is the most advantaged position in the game", he said seriously, "You see, the Joker is allowed free access to the kings court, and who would suspect him of anything went wrong? He's just the clown, underestimated by everyone, but he is in the prime place to strike against the kingdom - if he so chooses", Jerome shrugged, then smirked, "If he's smart. There's a reason he's called the wildcard, you know". Bruce raised a brow, trying to look knowing, but a smile quivered at the edge of his lips. "Fine", he conceded, "You can use that card", and Jerome placed it down with a self-satisfied flourish.

It was after a few games of cheat, and relentless teasing from Bruce that he'd had to explain the simplest two person card game to his teacher, when it became clear Jerome had no idea what he was doing, despite his claims ("A game about lying? I practically created it!"), when Bruce had an idea.

"Jerome, you've been working with the snakes for how long?", Jerome whipped what he claimed were 5 aces down on top of two kings, "Oh, uh, since my mother decided to swap pole dancing for snake dancing, so about seven years ago?". Bruce ignored the blatant lie in the game in favour of his greater goals. The younger boy pretended to consider this for a moment, placing three twos down as he thought, "So you think it was the snakes perhaps, that made you less afraid?". 

Jerome's eyes snapped up to meet Bruce's, "No", he growled, and placed three cards on top of the pile without declaring them. Bruce frowned at the cards, but let it go again, "How do you know?", he swindled, "It's worth a shot, right? You'll be there the whole time". 

There was only two cards left in Jerome's hand, and four in Bruce's. The older boy sighed, "It's just not possible, okay? Leave it". Bruce pulled out a three and dropped in on the deck, "Not even just a look? Please?", Jerome sent Bruce a pained look, "Bruce-", "Please!". Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jerome groaned, then nodded sharply, "Fine! But only for five minutes. I'm going to count". 

Almost running, Bruce stumbled down the side of the hill, Jerome dragging his feet further behind. "Are you sure you want to do this", Jerome yelled, hands in his jacket pockets curling around his new gifts (Jerome had made sure they hadn't left without him carefully ensuring each card wasn't crumpled and in the pack). Bruce just grinned back at him, before continuing his mad dash down towards the unlit circus. Jerome huffed and glared off at the horizon. 

When they got to the right caravan, Bruce almost sped straight past, and the older boy had to call him back. Bruce walked up to the bars of the cage holding the large python. He crouched down a foot away, looking directly at the reptile, "What's she called?", he asked. Jerome quirked an eyebrow, "She?", Bruce shrugged, smiling, "Just a guess". 

"Clipper. My dad was a sailor, and my mum was still in love with him when she named her", Jerome said calmly. Bruce didn't comment on his use of the past tense when talking about his dad, "Where's the little one?", he asked, still examining Clipper. 

Jerome sighed, walking towards the door to the caravan, up the steps and inside. The door swung shut with a clack behind him.

 Bruce eyed the handle curiously, well aware that considering how reluctant Jerome was being about even bringing Bruce here, this may be his only chance to see where his friend slept. Before he could change his mind, Bruce was up the steps and pushing open the thin door.

Wicker basket in hand, Jerome spun around when the door clacked shut behind Bruce, "What are you doing?", Jerome said quietly, eyeing the dirty plates in the sink and overflowing bin in the corner. Bruce didn't reply as he looked around the small interior. There was a shabby grey couch that clearly pulled out into a bed against one side, next to the dirty kitchenette. Where there wasn't colourful cloths hanging over the walls, the white skin of the caravan was peeling away to reveal rust. 

It smelt like peppermint though, which was nice. 

Jerome kicked one of the worn blankets on the floor behind the couch when Bruce's back was turned, "Okay", he muttered, "You got your look, let's go". 

"One second", Bruce murmured, eyes catching a curtained off area at the back of the trailer, "What's that?", he pointed, but before Jerome could answer, he was already stepping towards it. This time, Jerome followed him, standing behind and saying nothing as Bruce pulled back the curtain. On the floor, a crumpled grey blanket was bundled up on top of a lumpy mattress, with another two blankets posing as a makeshift pillow.  

Bruce turned to his friend, "Is this your bed?". Jerome shrugged, "Yeah, so?", he muttered, "I bet you haven't slept anywhere short of five stars your whole life", he said coldly, glaring at the purple silk hanging over a wall to his left. Bruce shot him an odd look, before sitting down on the lumpy mattress, fisting the grey blanket discarded on top of it. He leaned back against the wall and pulled his legs to his chest, looking up at the roof, "I like it, there's no big spaces for anything to hide".

Jerome looked at Bruce funnily for a second, before sitting down on the mattress next to him, snake forgotten on the side. They sat in silence for a while, side to side, thigh to thigh, before Jerome spoke, "Why did you buy me those things?". Bruce's eyebrows mashed as he smiled in confusion, "I saw them and thought you'd like them, plus, you got me a far cooler present". 

 

Jerome stared at him strangely for a little while, something odd in the back of his eyes, but a clattering as the door of the caravan was pulled open startled him into motion. Before Bruce could react, Jerome was on his feet, pulling Bruce's stiff form up and behind him. "Mother", Jerome spat out, one hand firmly across Bruce's mouth, "You're back early".

Bruce could hear another person shuffling around the caravan, dropping a heavy bag on the floor with a thump before turning to face Jerome. 

"I'm not. I'm on time", she sighed, and Jerome's back rumbled against Bruce's as he spoke, "You're usually late". Bruce realised that this person must be the beautiful woman who's played the flute in the performance two days ago. He heard more shuffling footsteps, before she stopped and paused, "Jerome, who's behind your back".

Jerome fell slack, defeated, "Just another circus hand mother, we came in here to get the spare baskets for your performance later-", "You know we don't bring anyone in here", she said quietly. 

Bruce pulled Jerome's hand from his mouth, stepping round him. The aghast face of the pretty brunette from the show, who was in her mid thirties perhaps, looked him up and down, "Ma'am", Bruce blurted, taking a step towards her nervously, "It's my fault-", Jerome's mother ignored Bruce's ramblings, turning to the older boy, "Jerome, this is not a circus hand". 

She clenched her fists, "We do not let people in here, Jerome", she snarled, glaring, " _Especially_  not outsiders". She started to advance on the two, but her attention was on the expressionless Jerome. 

"You'd better leave", Jerome said seriously, eyes not leaving his mother. Bruce raised his eyes to the older boy's face, taking in the cold eyes that were so different from earlier. The brunette laughed, a high pitched maniacal laugh, "You think he can leave? What have you shown him! What does he know?", she finally turned her malicious eyes to Bruce, clawing her hands and advancing towards him.

 Bruce faltered, stepping back from the dangerous woman, and Jerome stepped in from of him. "Mother, he knows nothing", his eyes hardened, "Don't even think about it", Jerome was cut off with a vicious slap across the face from the brunette, "Don't tell me what to do, you little shit", she began to reach for Bruce's collar. 

Before Bruce knew what was happening, Jerome's mouth was pulled up in a grimace, and he'd given his mother a vicious shove away from them both. He turned to Bruce with white eyes, an odd resignation lurking behind his pupils, "Sorry to cut this short, You'd better run, see you around, maybe", Jerome's smirk didn't quite reach his eyes, but he wrenched his iris's back to his mother, before grabbing the flailing woman's hands and holding them in his fists as she writhed. 

Bruce ran.

As he fled, he caught one last screech from Jerome's mother, "WAIT UNTIL OWEN GETS BACK JEROME, HE'LL BEAT YOU TO A  _PULP!_ ", and the smash of glass breaking, before he raced back towards Gotham. 


	2. Chapter Two

 

Bruce lay awake all night. 

His sheets felt too soft against his skin, his bed too smooth, and he couldn't stop worrying about Jerome. 

There had been something strange in his friend's eyes eyes when their day was cut short, something not entirely sane as he held his mother away from Bruce. He tossed around the mattress, kicking his covers off in frustration. It just didn't fit in! Jerome was a hero!

Bruce turned to face the other way. Maybe it had just been the adrenaline that put that look in Jerome's eyes, or the anger. Jerome wasn't a bad person. 

That slap had been hard. It'd left a harsh red mark across one side of Jerome's face, and Bruce felt a squirm of guilt low in his gut. He's been so insistent to look round, even when Jerome clearly didn't want him inside. Obviously for good reason. 

It had been his fault. 

Bruce clenched his hands, he'd go back tomorrow, he decided. He'd apologise to Jerome and everything would be okay, and Jerome would go back to teaching him how to be tough. 

 

•

 

Bruce waited by the stump all day, staring down at the circus lights. He did the same the next day, and the next. By noon on the fourth day, he'd had enough. Scrambling off the stump, eyes drawn close, Bruce began to march down the hill, his smart trousers and jacket tightening with the exaggerated movement.  

Halfway down he stopped, looking down at his clothes. They were custom made, a Canali jacket and brown knee length shorts. He didn't look like he was meant to be wandering round a circus in the daytime, he looked like Bruce Wayne.

It had rained last night, and a few muddy puddles still patched the way down, broken up by a couple of areas  with dry ground. 

Bruce grimaced. Alfred was going to kill him. 

He undid the tie first, Ralph Lauren, it had been a gift from the board at Wayne enterprises on his twelfth birthday, and it ended up garnishing the small gorse bush a few feet away. The jacket was next. Bruce glanced down at his shirt, before unbuttoning it. It was green tartan, again Ralph Lauren, but too formal done up, and the white t-shirt beneath it too clean. He leant down and scooped up a handful of the dry dirt from beneath a tree, and wiped it down his front. 

That was more like it.

By the time Bruce was done, he looked far more street urchin than billionaire. His Ralph Lauren shirt was torn and muddy, the breast pocket hanging limply by a few stitches, and his brown shorts were ripped in three places, the button torn off, now being held up only by a belt. Bruce grinned, now for Lesson Two. 

Nobody gave him any trouble as he walked through the circus, maybe because it looked like he hasn't washed in weeks, but that suited his needs perfectly. When he got to the small caravan, instead of knocking on the door, he glanced round, swallowed, and tiptoed up to one of the windows. He wasn't quite tall enough to see on flat feet, so balancing on his toes, Bruce squinted into the poorly lit interior. The caravan seemed empty, and Bruce was about to slink off to look elsewhere when the curtain around Jerome's bed rippled slightly.

Bruce's eyes widened, and he scrambled around the caravan to the door before pausing. His hand was inches away from the handle, but he was shaking. What if Jerome didn't want to see him? What if he was avoiding him? If that was the case, Bruce decided, he'd just leave; at least he'd know. Hardening his gaze, Bruce firmly gripped the handle and pulled the door open. 

It was too hot, too stuffy inside the caravan. No windows were open and it smelt like peppermint and stale air. There was silence apart from laboured breathing and a quiet groan. "Jerome?", Bruce breathed, slowly padding towards the curtain. There was no answer. Bruce slowly pulled back the curtain, revealing the curled up figure facing the wall inside. 

Bruce's eyes widened, mouth hanging open as he saw his friend. There were yellow bruises along his right cheekbone, and his lower lip was split. Part of the blanket was hard with dried blood. 

Jerome was awake, he just wasn't looking anywhere but the wall, Bruce tried again, "Jerome, w-what happened?", he whispered. A cold smile lifted the corners of Jerome's mouth slightly, but he didn't look away from the plaster, "Mother and her lovers don't like me bringing people back here", his voice was too slow, gritty, and Bruce was really getting worried. "Jerome, I think we need to go to a hospital", he said, high pitched and afraid. The older boy laughed, but it too was broken with illness, "We can't afford hospital, Brucie. Jus' let me sleep". 

Bruce yanked the cover off his friends still form, and blanched when he registered the unnatural angle his wrist was bent to, "Jerome, we're going to Gotham general", he growled, determination colouring his actions as he reached to pull Jerome up. As soon as he'd touched his friends side, Jerome winced, and Bruce recoiled as if he'd been burnt. Broken ribs too then. 

"Jerome, please get up", Bruce whispered, eyes wide, "We need to go now". Jerome's eyes fluttered with exhaustion, "Where can I go?", he muttered. Bruce was shaking again, "Don't worry, just get up", Jerome was clearly delirious, his eyes were rolling in their sockets, but he obeyed. Bruce pulled one of Jerome's arms around his shoulder, and began a painfully slow limp towards the door. 

The way out of the circus wasn't as easy. Whenever an older circus member caught sight of Jerome, instead of offering help, they just shook their heads. Bruce had to just grit his teeth and stumble past them, but the worst were the teenagers. Boys barely older than Bruce jeered as he pulled Jerome past, banging whatever they were sitting on and laughing.

 "Served the freak right!", one yelled, "Someone had to give him a good whacking". Bruce felt sick, others joined in, they were relentless, even as he got away from one group, another would start shouting insults, 

"Fag! Hope he dies!", 

"Just drop him kid! We'll finish the job!". 

Just as Bruce thought he would get to the end of the circus strip without being stopped, three older boys walked into the middle of the path a few meters away. 

"Where are you going with the freak, Rat?", one of them yelled, arms crossed over his chest, 

"Tell me who did that, I wanna go kiss 'em", another called out. Jerome weakly turned his head towards Bruce's ear, "They won't let me leave", he whispered, lips brushing the shell and making the younger boy shiver. 

Bruce glanced at his friend; he looked even worse in the light. There were black circles underneath each half-lidded eye, and a slightly yellow tinge to Jerome's too-pale, sweaty skin. Bruce's stomach hardened, he couldn't do anything like this. Bruce carefully sat Jerome down against a barrel, broken arm clutched to his chest. The younger boy tried to ignore the way his head lolled slightly before straightening. Jerome smiled  as he was being propped up, "Get out of here quickly, when they finish with me they might come after you", he muttered, smile not leaving as Bruce got back up. 

"Lesson two", Bruce murmured, walking towards the older boys with his fists clenched. He stared straight at the ringleader, eyes cold and face expressionless, "Let us past". The older boy blinked, before bursting into laughter, "What, you gonna make us?", he cackled. Bruce raised his eyebrows slightly, pupils cold as arctic water, "If I have to", he ground out. The boy who hadn't spoken took a step back, "Hey, Dan, let's just get out of here", he muttered, eyes on Bruce's, "He looks like  _him_ ". The leader turned on his friend, "Fine, you get out of here, then. Pussy. We'll beat this squirt to a pulp, then start on the freak without you".

Bruce stared the cowardly one down, "See you guys later", he uttered before turning on his heel and stumbling away. Bruce fixed his eyes back on the leader, "Your friend's smart. Smarter than you", Bruce paused again, "Get out of here".

"You're a cocky little shit, aren't you? Disrespecting me. Now you've made me angry", the leader said calmly, "You couldn't leave now if you tried, rude brats like you need to be taught a lesson", he started to roll up his sleeves as he prowled towards Bruce. 

Bruce stood straight and still, allowing the ringleader to advance. When he was a few feet from him, the older boy lunged, fist raised, and Bruce neatly sidestepped, grabbed a handful of the ringleader's hair, yanked it back and kneed him hard in the stomach. The older boy let out a wounded sound as the air whooshed out of his lungs, and he fell to the floor, gasping. 

The other bully lunged then, trying to get a good punch in whilst Bruce wasn't concentrating, but Bruce stepped out the way and pushed, the momentum sending the boy straight into a pile of wooded boxes beside a stand.

Bruce wasn't paying attention, and to his horror, the boy on the floor grabbed his ankle and pulled. Before he knew it, Bruce was lying on the floor with the ringleader's hands closing around his throat. It was too tight. Every futile attempt to pull the hands from his windpipe just made the corners of his eyes fuzzier. 

The older boy was smiling, Bruce registered slowly, as his efforts got weaker. Just as Bruce thought he was going to pass out, the hands were gone. 

Blessed, crisp air flooded his lungs, and Bruce lay there for a moment, gasping, before he rolled over, gagging and hacking as he threw up. The fuzziness slowly receded, and as soon as Bruce thought he could sit up without emptying what was left of his breakfast, he saw Jerome. His friend was swaying unsteadily on his feet, and the piece of crimson wood from the boxes clenched in his unhurt hand dropped to the floor.

Bruce felt like he was watching from above as he slowly registered the still body of the ringleader on the floor, red starting to seep out of the gash in his head where he lay. Bruce looked back to Jerome as his friend's legs crumpled, and just managed to catch him against his chest before he hit the floor.

 Jerome lay against Bruce, head on his left shoulder, breath puffing softly against Bruce's neck. His arms hung limp down Bruce's sides, and the younger boy clutched desperately onto the sleep shirt to keep Jerome upwards. 

Jerome's eyelashes fluttered against his neck as he spoke, "Are you okay?". Bruce laughed, a high, unsteady laugh, "Me? You're the one who just knocked a guy out with a broken arm, broken ribs, a fever and what I think is a concussion!". Bruce felt Jerome smile, "I told you I was badass". Bruce laughed harder, and Jerome joined in. They leant against each other as their relief flooded out.

When Jerome felt well enough to grit his teeth and stumble along using Bruce's shoulder, they began the trek to the nearest pay phone. Bruce was still worried, and the fight had sucked out the last of Jerome's energy. The older boy's eyes were barely open, and his feet were less walking, and more dragging along the floor as Brice pulled him along. 

By the time they reached the phone, both boys were exhausted. Jerome slumped down the wall next to the phone as Bruce rooted through his pockets for change. The dial tone for 911 was almost non existent, to Bruce's relief, and two minutes later, with the promise of an air ambulance as fast as possible for the Wayne Billionaire, Bruce slid down the wall to sit next to Jerome.

Jerome's split lip was bleeding again, and looking paler than ever as a bead of sweat dropped down his cheek, but at least he appeared to be mostly conscious. Jerome was staring at his feet when he spoke, "I can't afford this". Bruce chuckled, eyes fixed on an nearing black blob in the air, "That's not going to be an issue". The air around them began to thrum as an approaching helicopter neared. 

Newspaper pages and trash blew around the street as the helicopter descended into the park, and as soon as its feet were on the ground, paramedics began to run towards the boys.

 "Everything's going to be okay", Bruce whispered, and Jerome lay his head down on the younger boy's shoulder. His eyes fixed on an old newspaper article stuck around a bollard as he began to loose consciousness; there was a picture of two adults and a little boy on the front, he registered slowly, they looked happy. There was another photo, just beneath, of the same boy, but this time, he wasn't smiling. Owen's taunting words whilst he beat Jerome's head against the side of his caravan swam back into his head. 

Jerome closed his eyes.

 

•

 

Bruce didn't mind hospitals. They were clean and white, and he liked the sharp smell of disinfectant. 

He didn't, however, approve of the food. 

When the nurse brought the still unconscious Jerome a hospital tray with his lunch, Bruce examined it to make sure it was safe for his friend's consumption. Although it may have been safe, it looked disgusting. He pulled out a brand new mobile, "Alfred? Yes, I'm fine, I need you to bring me something though", he glanced down at Jerome's sleeping form, "Two ham sandwiches with coke and crisps. Yes, two, thank you Alfred", when Bruce looked back up, Jerome was watching him.

Bruce smiled tightly, "Look who's back from the dead", Jerome blinked and lifted his throbbing head to look down at himself, then groaned, "I feel like it". Jerome's eyes widened as he caught sight of Bruce's neck, "I'm going to kill him", he breathed. Bruce glanced down, fingering the purple hand-shaped bruises along his windpipe, "It's fine, no permanent damage". Bruce pushed himself off the chair and walked down to the clipboard on the end of the bed, "You, however, had a mild concussion, two broken ribs, a shallow knife wound to your abdomen, mild pneumonia and a broken wrist", he fixed Jerome with a glare, "Who did this to you? That Owen guy?".

Jerome stiffened, but shrugged, "Fell down some stairs", he slurred. Bruce glowered, "And how did these stairs manage to stab you?", he leant in, and the older boy fixed him a look, "Drop it Bruce". 

Sighing, Bruce retreated to his chair, "I will find out", he warned. Jerome's eyes hardened, "No you won't", he growled, his words still slightly jumbled. A tense silence fell between the two for a few minutes, before Bruce spoke again, "Those kids, at the fairgrounds, why wouldn't they let us leave? Why wouldn't anyone help you?". Jerome licked his lips, "What? Me? I'm Mr Popularity", his smirk was sardonic, Bruce just waited. 

Jerome sighed, "At first, people didn't like me because of my mother, so I had to figure out how to look after myself. People also don't like a kid who can look after himself", he looked at the bedsheets, "So when that kid gets put on his arse, they feel like they've won".

 Bruce nodded, before shuffling his feet, "Why'd they call you a fag?", he asked curiously.

Jerome stiffened, curling in like an angry cat, "You should stay out of other people's business", he spat, and Bruce recoiled in shock. A heavy silence fell on the room again, only broken when Bruce's phone rang. 

"Master Bruce, I understand you clearly care for this person very much, but the two security guards you have posted on the door are refusing to allow me and your sandwiches past", Jerome glared at the white ceiling, unable to hear the conversation. Bruce got up from his chair again, before walking over to the door, "Alfred can come in, with the sandwiches", he stated calmly. 

Jerome watched curiously as a middle-aged man shuffled into the room, a plastic bag in his hand. As soon as Alfred spotted Jerome, his eyebrows tightened slightly, and Jerome felt ill. Here came the, 'Who have you been spending time with, son?', speech.

Alfred nodded towards the bed occupant, "So you're who Master Bruce has been spending most his days with recently then?", Jerome shrugged, trying not to wince as it jolted his ribs, "Yeah, I'm Jerome". Alfred looked between the two boys for a moment, before beginning to unpack the bags, "I hope you like mayo on your ham, Jerome, Master Bruce doesn't eat them otherwise", he turned to Bruce, "They're from that bakery you like down on fourth street".

Jerome was watching Bruce funnily, and he didn't like it, it was the look he got whenever he walked into the public school. The rich boy look. Unable to stand it any longer, Bruce jumped to his feet, "Alfred, can you keep an eye on Jerome for a few moments? I need the toilet". He didn't even wait for a reply before he was out the door.

Passing Jerome a sandwich, Alfred sat down, "Someone sure gave you a beating, Jerome", he said casually. Jerome was still looking at the door Bruce had left from, "Stairs", he muttered. Alfred nodded, "Yes, stairs. It's common to see six foot four stairs with a ring on the fourth finger of their left hand running around beating people up these days". Jerome whipped around, dropping the sandwich into the covers, eyes wide, and Alfred continued, "Don't worry, Master Bruce hasn't noticed the slight difference in the colouring of the bruises on your face yet". 

"Don't tell him", Jerome said as he stared at the door. Alfred watched the young adult quietly for a while, "I won't, but he cares about you, and he isn't just going to give up, you know. Your just prolonging the inevitable". Jerome sighed, "That's the idea".

Bruce opened the door, walking back into the room, "I saw the doctor", he said to the floor, "He says you can leave in a day as long as your head's okay, and you have to take a prescription for your concussion with you, he says it's crucial. You've been unconscious for three days". Jerome watched him sadly, before nodding, "Thanks, I'll take it from here, I'm sure the circus will pay". 

Alfred cut in, "I'm afraid that's already been taken care of, Master Bruce sorted it out when you arrived", Bruce nodded, still not meeting Jerome's eyes, "I'll see you around then", Jerome muttered, staring at the same place on the floor as Bruce. He nodded, and walked out the door, Alfred sent Jerome a smile, before leaving. 

He lay there in silence for a while, staring at the ceiling fan. A pile on the side table caught his eye, there was a baguette, packet of crisps and coke sitting there, the packet advertising some bakery uptown. Jerome lashed out, sending the food flying, before he rolled over, trying to pretend the way his eyes prickled was because of the pain in his ribs.

 

•

 

After dismissing the security guards, the young billionaire slunk into the passenger seat of the Rolls Royce. Bruce was silent the whole way back, staring straight through the windscreen. Clearing his throat, Alfred glanced at his charge, "Master Bruce, not to sound rude, but our exit back there was a bit bloody cruel", he flicked the indicator, turning the car towards Wayne Manor. 

Bruce just stared out the window, trying to forget that look on Jerome's face.

 

•

 

It was 3.20 when a nurse came into Jerome's room to change his IV. 

Whilst she was writing something on the clipboard at the end of his bed, Jerome spoke, "Hey, do you know who Bruce Wayne is?". She blushed, glancing round the room, 

"Is that a trick question? He payed for your treatments", Jerome held his hand out, "No, I mean is he well known round here?". She laughed, "Maybe that concussion is more serious than we thought, you're not from round here, are you? Bruce Wayne is the owner of Wayne Corporations, the biggest company in the whole of Gotham", she said this like Jerome should know, as if he kept tracks on the wealthy elite, "He owns half this hospital, amongst many other things", Jerome stared at his blanket, "So his dad is rich?". The nurse gave him a pitying look, "He doesn't have any parents. They died in a mugging gone wrong earlier this year, it was huge, coverage was shown all over the world. And if by rich, you mean billionaire? Yes, he's rich". Jerome turned over, eyes tight with resignation.

The doctor came in at about seven, he picked up Jerome's clipboard and examined it, "Yes, you're the one who had a serious concussion, right?", Jerome frowned, "Serious? The nurse  earlier said it wasn't that bad". The doctor stopped turning the pages of the clipboard, "Nurse earlier?", he said, "The one who brought you lunch?". Jerome frowned, "No, the one who came to change my IV, we talked". 

The doctor looked at him for a moment, before walking out the room with a stern, "Wait here". 

Jerome'd always had a little problem with authority. He flexed his legs, and examined the tubes going into the veins of his arms. Jerome ripped them off in one fluid motion, wincing as one tore slightly on exit. Bruce said four days, that didn't give him much time at all. Swinging his feet off the bed, he noticed a wrapped sandwich squished between his covers. Jerome glanced down the hall, there was nobody there, but an odd, flapping noise echoed down the walls. Jerome winced and held his head, it was too loud. 

He stumbled down the hall and out the door, only registering that he was just wearing a hospital robe when his feet touched grass. That was fast, Jerome thought to himself idly; he was already back at the circus. Whatever they had given him at the hospital was wearing off. Everything was spinning slightly, taunting him, "Stop it", he growled softly, holding his hands out for balance. 

His legs weren't obeying him properly, it was like he was wading through mud. A black shape sped in front of him, but it didn't run, it sort of shot, like a bullet. Jerome whirled, trying to find it again, but it had disappeared.

 "Fucking bird, it's fucking night time, 'should be ASLEEP!", he yelled. The flapping noise that had followed him from the hospital now nearly unbearable. His relief when he reached their cold, mouldy caravan was ignored in favour of navigating the huge steps, when had these steps gotten so big?

 The caravan was empty. Jerome laughed, a high pitched, unstable laugh, his mother was probably off whoring herself out to whichever of the two family members she fancied on the particular night.

He collapsed onto his bed, vision swimming, pulling a pillow over his head to try and cut out the infernal flapping. It wasn't working. Jerome flipped over, angrily searching the caravan for whatever it was. 

Bats. 

There were bats everywhere. 

His vision was going dark, there were so many bats.  Jerome fell backwards the bats pressing in on him, he couldn't see, and all he could hear was the endless flapping. Finally, the darkness swallowed him, and it was quiet.

 

•

 

Despite himself, Bruce went back to the hill the next night. It was a battle between whatever mixture of resentment and pity had lurked in Jerome's eyes when he said goodbye a day ago, and his desire to see his friend, but eventually, his desires won out. It was late, and no one was there. 

The circus lights were just starting to turn on, and the whole park stopped being just an area of green amidst the towering skyscrapers, it became a different place all together. The moonlight gave the trees a silvery sheen, their golding leaves bleached and pearlescent. 

Bruce couldn't see Jerome's caravan from here, it was all lost in the glaze of honey light from the circus that didn't quite reach him. People were milling around the stalls, and for a moment Bruce considered walking down and into the fray, searching out the shabby caravan and walking in to apologise for ever pushing his way into Jerome's home. For getting him hurt so badly he had lost almost a week to unconsciousness. Bruce thought about what he would do in Jerome's position, before standing up, and walking home.

 

•

 

Alfred watched with narrowed eyes as his young master stirred his uneaten breakfast cereal forlornly. 

He'd been like this for the last two days, ever since they'd left the hospital. Bruce was moping around the house, refusing to even go out and see Selina, and Alfred'd had enough. "Master Bruce, excuse me saying this, but don't you think you should get off your bloody arse and go see the young man if you're so upset over how you left things", he placed a cup of juice in front of the untouched cereal. 

Bruce raised his eyes slowly, before dropping them again, "He doesn't want to see me, Alfred", Alfred hummed, "And you know this without speaking to him? Pray tell, is this boy teaching you to be psychic as well as to fight?". Bruce dropped his spoon on the side of his bowl with a soft clink, "He doesn't want to see the person that did that to him Alfred. All I've done is take up his time, get him hurt and in trouble with his family". 

Pulling a chair round to the opposite side of the kitchen counter, Alfred spoke, "Are you sure? The way I see it, you took him away from the person that did that to him, protected him and offered friendship", Bruce glanced up at him, "Take it from me, that's not nothing". Alfred fixed Bruce a serious look, "Not going to see him is cowardly. What if he's been trying to see you this whole time? Does he even know where you live?". 

Bruce's eyes widened, and he frantically slid off his chair, "Alfred, get the the Rolls, I'm going to need to be taken to Gotham carnival in five minutes!", he yelled as he ran to his room. Alfred shook his head, picking up the abandoned cereal and placing it in the sink, he'd have time for that later, Master Bruce had more pressing issues to attend to.

The whole way there, Bruce was straining against his seatbelt, leaning forward to look round every corner, biting the inside of his cheek. Alfred sped up a bit, rounding the corner a block away from the park almost too quickly. Speeding tickets weren't going to be a problem. 

As soon as the Rolls Royce pulled up, Bruce was out the car and running. 

Alfred cursed, " _Bruce_!", but he was gone. The butler ran into the trees after him.

 Bruce was sprinting through the trees towards the Circus, afraid and excited about what Jerome would say. He would laugh, make up some rude, funny statement and ask where Bruce had been this whole time. It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay.

The Wayne billionaire broke through the trees into the clearing, skidding to a sudden halt. He whirled around, confusion written across his features, "No-", he choked, scrambling back into a run. Up the hill he went, stumbling and tripping as he raced, pulling himself towards their spot as quickly as he could. 

Alfred broke into the clearing, holding his legs as he breathed heavily. Sadness clouded his features as his eyes travelled across the empty grass. He glanced up, watching the small figure of Bruce tripping as he ran up the hill. He started to walk up after him, empathy drawing his mouth  small. 

Bruce clawed himself up to the stump, "No", he scaled the dead wood; nothing. He fell to his knees ripping up grass and scrabbling through the dirt and stones, "There's got to be something, he couldn't have just  _left_!". 

When Alfred reached the pinnacle of the hill, he found Bruce curled up in a ball on the floor next to the stump. He crouched down next to him, resting a hand on his head, "Master Bruce", he whispered, "I'm so sorry, they've moved on". 

Suddenly, Alfred's arms were full of a sobbing Bruce Wayne, "Why? Alfred, Why didn't he tell me?", Alfred sat down on the dirt, thinking back to their conversation in the hospital.

"Maybe he always knew there was going to be a time limit, and thought you did too", Bruce's sobs rocked his small form, "But he didn't even say goodbye". Alfred closed his eyes, burying his face into Bruce's hair as the boy moaned.

"He didn't even say goodbye".


	3. Chapter 3

It was the rattling that finally woke Jerome. The whole caravan was shaking, and a peculiar feeling akin to seasickness threatened Jerome's stomach. For a horrible moment he thought everything had been a fever dream; Bruce rescuing him, the hospital, everything. That he was still stuck in a vicious cycle of not sleeping then passing out from exhaustion. Then he noticed the bandage on his arm, and his breath escaped from him in relief.

He couldn't remember much about the night before, his head was still fuzzy, and he had an intense headache like there was a hatchet lodged in his skull. Jerome groaned weakly, vague memories of stumbling through a hospital and into the park swimming back to him as he clutched his head. There was an empty glass next to his bed, so he must've got up at some point to get a glass of water, but he couldn't recollect waking. Jerome tried to focus on the night before.

Bruce.

Bruce had been at the hospital. And flapping. _No, Stop it,_ Jerome groaned, pain wracking his body.

He was no longer feverish, he was just cotton-headed, confused.

After a few tries, he managed to get to his feet. The caravan was still rattling beneath him, but he was dehydrated and his balance was off. Jerome staggered to the window, grabbing hold of the table next to it to keep his balance. The countryside rushing past the window caught his eye.

Jerome's heart stuttered, and with wide eyes, he pressed his face into the glass. This wasn't possible. He was meant to have more time. He scrambled across to the flashing plastic alarm clock, blinking rapidly to try and force his eyes to focus on the tiny writing under the numbers.

He had to sit down. Jerome felt the floor drop from beneath him and he was suddenly sitting down on the bed. He'd slept for two whole days. The Circus had left Gotham.

He stared blankly down at the clock for a moment, before red hot anger coursed through him. He hurtled the clock through the air to smash against the side of the caravan.

It made him feel slightly better.

Next was the colourful drapes on the walls. He'd always hated the fucking drapes. They tore down easily with a satisfying ripping noises, but it didn't satisfy the boiling rage inside Jerome. He turned on the tables, but they were harder to break. He had to think about how to destroy them.

The legs, he broke the legs first, then the backs. Splinters cut into his hands, but he couldn't feel them. The anger made him numb. It was howling like a hurricane within him, unable to find direction without the destruction. Someone had taken him away from Bruce.

Eyes set on the bed, Jerome waded through the wreckage to the kitchen drawer. Before he knew it, there was a knife in his hands.

Stabbing the pillows was simple, the skin easily gave way to steel, the soft insides pouring out so sweetly in response to Jerome's efforts.

The duvet was harder. He had to hold it still beneath him so he could tear it open efficiently. Long gashes opening up in its centre. Jerome pushed his hands into the cavity, smiling crazily and twisting his hands amongst the warmth. A moment of clarity stuck him; it was _their fault!_

 _They_ had taken Bruce away from him!

Jerome blacked out.

He regained consciousness kneeling in the middle of the caravan. Everything was still, oddly so. His hands were red, the bandage up his left arm stained like he'd been crushing raspberries. He focused on his surroundings.

It looked like a bomb had gone off.

There were feathers everywhere, some stuck on his arms and in the middle of the floor by the raspberry juice.

There were large splinters of broken wood lying around randomly, as well as nest-like sticks of wicker, and the tables were gone. The colourful cloths that used to garnish the walls were strewn around the floor like fish guts.

Jerome's eyes were drawn back to the raspberry puddle amidst the feathers and debris slightly to the left of him. He crawled over, wincing when he noticed the wood and broken glass stuck into his palms, but he didn't stop.

Lying still in the middle of the bloom, was a little body. A jagged gash ran down its underbelly from tip to tail, and stringy intestines fell around it like anemone petals. Glass eyes stared unseeingly towards the wall ahead of it, and a lipstick red velvet tongue lolled out from its mouth. Jerome tilted his head curiously, there were so many different shades of red, pink and purple, it was beautiful. Too beautiful for in here.

Carefully, Jerome slid his hands under the tiny victim, its head lolling like a small child's. He walked to the door, using his elbow to open it. The early morning sun glared down at them as he walked down the steps towards some trees. He didn't know where he was, just that he couldn't leave this pitiful creature in that hellish place.

There was nobody around, and the caravans were dark and untouched. Jerome vaguely registered that they must have just arrived, and his mother hadn't even returned from whichever lovers bed she was in yet.

Jerome knelt in the dirt, gently lying the small body down next to him. He dug a small hole at the base of the tree, and placed the beautiful black and red creature in the depths. It's glass eyes stared up at the sky.

It was so still, but if Jerome squinted slightly, it almost looked like it was sleeping. Quietly, Jerome scooped dirt on top, the cover falling over body softly. Jerome stood up, brushed off his knees and walked into the trees ahead of him.

He stayed there till it was dark again, watching the forest come to life as night touched. The bubbling anger hadn't gone completely, it was deep inside him, broiling away for later. Earlier in the day he'd heard people out calling his name, but they didn't find him, and he didn't reply.

They'd taken Bruce away from him. It was their fault.

He wanted them to pay. Everyone that had driven Bruce away. They would all feel the loss he felt. He stared coldly into the darkness, twitching slightly when something flew above him.

He broke into a cold sweat. Panicked images of black shapes swarming around him and closing in filling his vision. He couldn't breathe. Jerome ran back towards the carnival and into the trailer, slamming the door shut behind him. Someone had been inside, cleaned it up slightly. There were still no tables or drapes, and the red stain was still there with the feathers and shards of wood. Jerome caught his breath against the door, before slowly walking towards his bed, and climbed inside.

He slept for three hours, before the first rays of sunlight crept through the glass, and then his eyes refused to close. Jerome lay there, hands oddly clean, a slight dizziness forcing him to ground himself.

He tried to go back to sleep, but the noise that had woke him started up again. A buzzing of voices outside the caravan, the deep booming one of the ringleader breaking the white noise every now and then. His mother was there too, Jerome rolled into his back, suddenly wide awake.

They were going to kick him out, in the middle of a random city with no way to get back to Bruce.

He couldn't let them. He had to stay here for the rest of the month, so they brought him back to Gotham at the end of the tour. One month. Jerome could fake one month.

Footsteps clanged on the metal steps leading to the caravan door, and Jerome swallowed. They couldn't know.

"Jerome?", Lila called out hesitantly from behind the door, "Jerome can we come in?".

"Y-Yeah", he yelled back gruffly. She peered inside, glancing around the caravan before catching sight of her son. Her eyes welled with faux tears, and she ran to him, "Oh baby, my Jerome, When Paul told me what had happened, oh I was so scared". Cicero? Jerome hadn't even seen the psychic that night, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His mother knew that, Jerome could see it in her eyes, she just didn't want anyone poking around insife the trailer, worried she might be discovered.

Jerome smiled softly, looking relieved. He could act too. "Mum, I'm so sorry, I, I didn't know what to do!", Jerome screwed up his eyes, forcing them to well.

"What did Mr Cicero tell you?", Jerome said shakily as another shadow came into the caravan, it was the ringleader. He surveyed the empty walls and pillow less bed, then his eyes travelled to the feathers, shards of wood and red stain.

Lila sniffled, "Only that you managed to valiantly defend yourself against a violent thug! He couldn't give us the details, only his half of the story. When he got there, he was just in time to get shoved aside by a large man, before you ran past him after the sod and into the forest! Baby, what happened?", Jerome let his head fall against his mothers neck to buy him some time. Why would Mr Cicero do that? Lie to save his neck?

He sighed forlornly, "I was sleeping here, when I heard someone in the caravan. At first I thought it was you, but when I heard them tearing the pillows apart, I know it couldn't be". The ringleader watched silently as Jerome continued, "Obviously I got up, you know, to check what was happening, but when I pulled back my curtain-", he chocked off.

Lila rubbed his back, and he had to hide a smile, "Go on, baby", she murmured.

"When I pulled back my curtain he had our black viper in his hands, and he was _cutting her open_ ", Jerome shuddered, "I ran at him, and he obviously wasn't expecting me to be there, because he jumped to his feet and ran, still holding the viper-". Jerome broke off, staring at the floor.

It wasn't traumatised enough yet, he dicided, and faked a gag, Lila looked frantically at the ringleader, "Get the washing up bucket!", she yelped, thrusting it under her son as he dry heaved. The ringleader shook his head, "Jerome, that was a very brave thing you did, did you see his face?".

The young man looked up from his bucket, before letting his head drop, "No sir, I lost him in the forest". Lila shushed him, rubbing circles into his back. "Thank you for coming to help us, sir, but I think I need some time to comfort my son. It was a horrible experience, I'm not even sure if he'll be up to performing this week". The ringleader nodded understandingly, "Of course, Miss Valeska, Jerome can take all the time he needs. What a disgusting hate crime".

Lila rubbed Jerome's back as the Ringleader and crowd retreated. When it was finally quiet outside, she turned on him, "What were you trying to do you little Rat!", she grabbed a fistful of his collar, lips drawn back. Jerome just smiled, silent as his mother shook him, "You could have blown this whole thing! Do you want to go to jail? Do you!".

She dropped his collar in disgust, and Jerome dropped to his hands and knees, still smiling. Lila started to pace the messy floor, "Shit. That was too close. You're goddamn lucky Cicero is a blind, senile old fart who thought he heard two of you", Jerome stopped smiling, still confused. That's was the only thing that didn't make sense. Cicero had always been nice to him, but doing this was putting himself in the firing line. Jerome wouldn't have done it if their positions were reversed.

Kicking a broken table leg out of her way, Lila stood above Jerome, hands on her hips as she sneered, "Ugh, if the Ringleader had wanted a look around- You ever do anything like this again, you're on the streets. Only reason you're not now is because it'd be too suspicious. Clean this up, and then you can go scrounge up enough money to buy me a new snake". She glanced around the caravan once more, looking sickened, before leaving. The door bounced shut behind her, leaving Jerome in silence.

•

Time dragged. Jerome was stuck in a vicious cycle of hardly sleeping at night (due to a combination of nightmares and insomnia), then being exhausted to the point of being catatonic during the day. He was short tempered and snappish, starting fights on whims and terrorising circus hands.

He had a special hatred, however, for Dan Lloyd. Every time he saw the man slinking around the circus, his eyes filled with the images of livid purple bruises marring white skin, and a red sheen drenched his brain. He couldn't do it, he told himself, It wasn't like with the snake.

Jerome kept telling himself that.

He began to play tricks on Dan. Moving things in his trailer, swapping the food in his fridge for out of date versions of the same thing, and nasty practical jokes like dead mice in his bed. Dan always knew it was him, though, no matter if no-one else did or how innocent he looked the next day.

Ultimately, Dan cornered him. Jerome was stumbling towards his caravan, when he was suddenly thrust up against a tent pole by a strong forearm. Typically, it was dark and after a performance so Jerome was tired. The air whooshed out of him, leaving Jerome gasping, but he didn't have to look up to tell who it was, "Hey! Dan, what's up?". The circus hand leaned close, his un-brushed teeth smelling foul, "I know it's you, freak. I know what you've been doing".

Jerome widened his eyes comically, "Me? I don't know what you're talking about!". Dan growled, punching Jerome on the gut. Jerome laughed as he wheezed, "Okay, okay tough guy. Don't you like the sleeping companions?", Dan grabbed his throat, "You think it's funny? Think it's smart?".

Jerome's pupils were abruptly ice cold as they bored into Dan's forehead, "Is this how you grabbed Bruce?", he said, voice gravelly. Dan sneered, "Your little, underage boyfriend? Yeah, this is how I pinned him. He went such a _pretty_ shade of purple". Jerome's arm snapped up to grab the one restricting his breathing. Sweat broke out on the bully's forehead as Jerome's too-tight hand slowly removed the restriction from his throat, "You shouldn't have done that, you know", his voice was too light for the weight behind his pupils.

Dan's legs buckled as he tried to ease the pain in his forearm, "Get off me, Freak!". Jerome leaned down, danger emitting in strong waves from his silhouette, "He's the only reason I haven't killed you, you snivelling piece of shit, you should be _very_ grateful". Jerome kicked him viciously, the grunt of pain easing his thirst for retribution slightly, before spitting on him once and walking away.

•

Days began to pass in a daze. They moved from city to city, nothing really making an impression on Jerome's transfixed mind. They weren't the towering, strong skyscrapers of Gotham, so he wasn't interested.

Jerome found himself sleeping less and less often, and there were permanently purple scythes under his sunken eyes. People didn't call him freak to his face anymore, they were too afraid. They would whisper it to each other when they thought he couldn't hear them, Jerome just laughed at them.

They had no idea.

He started to steal and read the local newspapers, eyes greedily scanning the pages for any mention of a Wayne. Every time it did, even just a line about a new business venture in the company, he'd careful cut it out and keep the article. He learnt a lot about Bruce in that time, things Bruce hadn't even told him. Jerome wondered why, perhaps Bruce didn't want their friendship to become corrupted by pity, or perhaps he just didn't trust a circus performer.

Jerome also kept the comic strips, and stories about far-off vigilantes, just in case Bruce hadn't seen them. He kept them all in a box near his bed.

His mother never came back in the evenings anymore, she spent her nights in Owen Lloyd or Alphonse Greyson's caravans, scheming about their secret. Jerome had no need to hide anything. He never did move to her bed though, he just slowly sent tendrils of his decor outwards from his corner.

The month was finally almost over, and Jerome had one last day until they returned to Gotham. One day till he could see Bruce. He could go straight to his house, Jerome knew where he lived now after all.

He had just one last act of retribution to deal out. He would wait till he'd seen Bruce. He knew seeing the boy would steady his hand, so he could do it slowly, carefully, and enjoy it. The true culprit for their separation deserved the worst reprisal after all.

The journey was so slow. Even though it was only fifty miles, it felt like Jerome waited in his caravan for an eternity. His impatience when they hit traffic only ten miles away was explosive.

Jerome lay down afterwards on his lumpy mattress, running Bruce's playing cards through his fingers. He only closed his eyes for a moment.

•

"He's gone, Owen", his mothers sickly sweet crooning woke him. He lay there for a little while, only realising he'd fallen asleep with the cards when all of them but one slid off his chest.

For a second, Jerome had forgotten that anything had ever happened, but it all came crashing back down. Bruce, he needed to go see Bruce now. Just as he was going to reveal himself, Owen spoke, "It's a good job we're back. We need to deal with that street rat before he goes blabbing to someone about our operation". Lila giggled, "I'm sure we can find him, let's do it tomorrow though, after the show. It's getting late, and I have some people I can contact here to do the job".

Jerome's hands started to shake. He'd thought he could leave this until after he'd seen Bruce, but it was looking more and more like he was going to have to deal with it now.

He waited until Owen left. There wasn't a performance tonight, and it was late enough that everyone would be in their caravans asleep. He carefully peeled back the curtains, spying through the gap. Lila wasn't facing him, she was carefully pouring a large bag of white powder into lots of different smaller bags on top of some scales, a small bottle of peppermint essence to conceal the smell sitting next to her. Jerome's blood boiled.

Picking up a crystal glass bowl of fake fruit that Lila had placed on the kitchen side in a weak attempt at re-decorating, Jerome quietly walked up behind his mother. She didn't notice him approaching, her concentration purely on the task she was doing. With a forceful crack, Jerome brought the cut glass semi-sphere down on her head, plastic fruit sent flying. She folded with a quiet mewl, the big bag of white powder thrown high into the air before its contents came fluttering down on top of them both. Jerome tried to spit it out and wipe it from under his eyelids with a grimace, the mixture of gritty texture and slow chemical burn preceded the super sharp clarity that forcedly zapped through his system.

Jerome laughed as the colours around him brightened and smiled at him. His smile widened further as he realised his mother was unconscious. This was almost as good as seeing Bruce. He almost felt happy. This had been a good idea. Such a good idea. Jerome was still laughing as he picked her up and walked out the door.

A small wood-chopping hatchet lay next to a firewood pile close to a fire barrel. It was pretty, a good fit for the task ahead, and Jerome picket it up as he walked towards the stump.

Jolly, echoing circus music followed Jerome as he carried her up the hill, chasing the moon. His feet were light, and he felt better than he had in months. He ran up the last five meters, the strain of his muscles far away with his worries.

He dropped Lila unceremoniously at the base of a tree near their stump. Jerome liked it here, it was fitting. He liked the circus songs echoing in the air up here. Crowd's laughing, cheering him on. Jerome laughed with them.

The hatchet was glinting beautifully; its handle black as death, but the blade itself a shard of moonlight. Jerome knelt down as his mother stirred. A soft groan escaped her lips as she lifted her head, "Ooh, youchies! That can't feel good. Neither did my head after Owen had finished with me though, to be honest", Jerome trailed the hatchet point along his jawline, fascinated by the way his mother's eyes followed its movements. "You know", Lila totally stilled as the sharp object was pointed at her face, "I never did understand how a mother could stand by and order a man to beat up her own son".

Jerome carefully trailed the weapon down the bridge of his nose, shushing as she whimpered, "Did you know what he did to me?", he said quietly, "Broke my arm, two ribs, stabbed me and added serious concussion on as an extra bonus", Jerome laughed. He carefully pried apart her jaw with his fingers, and inserted the blade. "Do you know what he said to me? The whole time he was bashing my skull against the caravan wall?". He leaned in, till his lips were parallel to his mother's ear, "Why so serious?".

Lila's expression went cold, dropping her act. She stated defiantly into her sons face, "Burn in hell", she snarled, words mangled by the blade in her mouth. Jerome grinned, "Ladies first", and pulled the handle sharply to the right.

•

The high was beginning to wear off. Jerome sat up against the opposite side of the tree to his artificially smiling, dead mother. His head started to clear, smile getting smaller and smaller as it did. Ten minutes later, Jerome was staring at his blood-covered hands.

_Jerome chuckled softly, "It must be a good feeling, going around killing bad guys", Bruce squirmed, "I don't know. Doesn't that sort of make you as bad as them?"._

' _What have I done?'_ , Jerome started to tremble. He hadn't intended to kill her, just scare her a little, make her feel as bad as him. He began to run. Away from the carnival, away from the glass eyes of his mother and into Gotham. Nobody except the street men were out at this time between late night and early morning, and Jerome got barely a glance as he ran towards Wayne mansion.

He needed to see Bruce.

Jerome staggered through the wrought iron gates of Wayne Manor, trying to take in all the statues and neatly clipped hedges. What Bruce must have thought of him when he saw the dingy place where Jerome slept. He pushed that out of his mind, plowing on towards the front door. All the lights were off, and a tug at the front door handle confirmed its status as locked. A low window to what looked like a library was slightly open, however, and it didn't take much to force it open a little more to allow a lithe body through.

The corridors were seemingly endless. Jerome staggered up a staircase, trying not to smear his red hands on any of the expensive wallpaper. One of the doors was slightly open down the corridor off the staircase, and Jerome quietly made his way towards it.

The hinges were silent as the door swung inwards, and the moonlight streaming in through the window lit up the beds inhabitant. Jerome felt the fight drain out of him when he found Bruce's face amongst the covers, and a soft, blanketing warmth fell over him. It had all been worth it.

He slowly walked towards Bruce, legs like solid weights as he neared the bedside. He carefully sat down on the bed, but Bruce's eyes fluttered anyway. Jerome smiled as the blue eyes opened completely, taking him in. There were a few seconds of nothingness, before a quiet rustling came from beneath the sheets as Bruce lifted an arm. Jerome just smiled as the younger boy placed his hand on his arm.

"You're real", Bruce muttered incredulously, his voice husky with sleep. Jerome couldn't help it, he reached forward and pulled Bruce into his arms. The younger boy said nothing, but just clung on tightly. Hands entwined in Jerome's shirt.

"J-Jerome", Bruce stuttered, but Jerome wasn't listening, he was too busy trying to make his sleep-starved, drug addled brain come up with a smart, almost apologetic comment that would make the unexplained month apart okay. It was only when Bruce started to try and pull Jerome off him when he realised what was all over him, " _So much blood_ \- Are you hurt? Jerome!".

Jerome pulled back slowly, watching as Bruce's eyes travelled down his front, confusion colouring his face when he couldn't find the source. "Did someone attack you?", Bruce was scrambling out of bed towards the phone on his bad side table, "No!", Jerome yelled, grabbing his hand, and cleared his throat, "No, it's okay, don't worry. I'm back, see!". Jerome tried to ignore the shock on Bruce's face, and the half-dried, bloody handprints he was leaving on his shirt.

Bruce's eyebrows scrunched together, "I don't understand. Nobody attacked you?". Jerome laughed, "It's okay, I had to. She was going to ruin everything", Bruce pulled back slightly, "What are you talking about?", he whispered, an almost afraid look directed towards older boy, "What did you do?".

Jerome hated that. Bruce had said he wasn't afraid of him, he almost swore it. Bruce wasn't allowed to lie, Jerome was the liar. Equilibrium must be achieved, if Bruce was going to lie, Jerome had to tell the truth, "Mother wanted to kill you, it was the cocaine", he said slowly, "She never tried it, but she would travel round the country with the circus, selling it to low-lives on street corners. She was obsessed with the money, never cared about anyone else". Bruce wasn't looking at Jerome now, but his lower lip was quivering slightly, the older boy forced himself to continue, "She thought you saw, the night you came into the trailer, she thought you knew about her secret. Peppermint oil to hide the smell".

Bruce swallowed, "What did you do?", his voice was hoarse, and Jerome suddenly realised how perilous his situation was. He tried to think of something, to take it back, to laugh it off.

_Doesn't that sort of make you as bad as them?_

Jerome opened his mouth but his words got stuck in his throat. Bruce was staring at his hands. "I did it for you", Jerome whispered. Bruce huddled back into the headboard, his knees clutched to his chest. Jerome reached for him, "Bruce-", but broke off the action when he noticed the wet splashes on the white duvet.

That's not allowed. Bruce wasn't allowed to reject him after _everything Jerome had sacrificed for him!_ He let his hand fall to the bed, leaving a red smear on the cotton. That was it. Everything has come to nothing. Bruce didn't want to know him. Didn't want to know the murdering, lonely stalker who left him. Jerome got to his feet, glancing at the shaking boy at the top of his bed, silver trails down his cheeks.

Jerome felt empty when he left the room. Just cold and empty as he walked down the stairs and down the door. It was only when he got to the wrought iron gates that the anger began to bubble up inside him. Bruce was wrong. To protect people you couldn't always keep your hands clean. You had to kill the bad guy to protect the innocent.

Angry hysterics rose up from his anger, it was a huge joke. He couldn't stop now, not when Bruce's passion for clean streets and justice had bled through his skin and was inside him.

Life gave him someone so perfect, someone who was interesting and made him want to know them, but they were so _wrong_. Jerome walked back to the circus, the blood on his hands drying flakily in the darkness.

•

Bruce sat there for what felt like hours, until he couldn't cry anymore, and the tears dried stiff on his cheeks. What had he done? Jerome had been a hero, he'd protected him, taught him to be brave, to be like him. But what had Bruce given him in return?

He thought of the bruises and broken bones Jerome had taken for him, the suffering Bruce had put him through. Jerome had to give up everything in he end.

Bruce felt like poison, seeping into goodness and polluting it from the inside out. The Jerome that had been in the hospital just over a month ago wasn't the Jerome that had just staggered into his room, hands bloodied from the act Bruce had forced him into. Bruce's fault.

_Peppermint oil._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***SPOILERS RIGHT HERE FOR SEASON 2 EPISODE 3***
> 
> I've decided that because of last night's episode, and the resultant confusion and anger that it brought (because, come on, they've just killed off the best charector in the series to make him an idea. Wtf is their logic), I'm going to upload all the rest of the chapters now, for you guys.
> 
> If you have been put off because of the episode, this is an alternate storyline. Where Jerome does become the Joker and Theo doesn't kill him.
> 
> My only hope for Gotham now is that Jerome gets brought back, through any means, I'm not even bothered if it's unrealistic. But they really killed off the best.
> 
> I apologise for the idiocy of the writers of Gotham.

Chapter Four

In the end, it had been as easy as killing the snake.

Jerome looked down at Lila's glass eyes and lipstick red mouth, the muscles in her body starting to pull tight in rigor mortis. She looked smaller in death, less threatening. It almost made him consider the idea of souls, but that would also lead to a hard session of thought about higher powers and himself, and he didn't want to go there. The corners of her mouth were now halfway to her ears.

_"Why so serious?"._

He looked down at the body of the woman who'd brought him into this world, feeling no remorse, just a soft feeling of completion.

Jerome picket up the hatchet, before walking back down the hill through the night, towards the circus.

When he got back to the circus, the door to his caravan was open. Jerome froze; he hadn't left that open when he'd left. He thought back to the cut glass bowl lying on the floor with a splattering of his mothers blood still drying on the side, the fake fruit, the cocaine.

He crept towards the open door, listening to the quiet huffing he could hear from inside. He stopped in the doorway, confusion marring his face as he found Mr Paul Cicero on his hands and knees, a bandanna over his nose and mouth as he cleaned up the mix of white powder and splattering of blood on the floor. "What are you doing?", Jerome asked slowly, almost coldly. Mr Cicero paused his actions, "There is a warm bowl of water in my caravan with fresh clothes. Go there and wash the evidence from your skin. Burn the clothes your wearing in one of the fire barrels". The blind man then continued surprisingly efficiently wiping the mess from the floor.

Jerome turned, and walked towards Mr Cicero's trailer. It was bigger, but more old fashioned on the inside. An array of glass orbs glinting in the dark from the shelves. It was surprisingly clean and organised, considering the old man's disability. Cicero hadn't been lying. There was a still steaming bowl of water sitting on the table, and a warm set of clothes off to one side.

When Jerome walked out of the trailer ten minutes later, he had the bloodstained clothes under one arm, and was pulling a heavy, green, woollen coat on top of the slightly worn clothes Mr Cicero had set out for him. Jerome liked the coat's colour, it was nice. He thought it probably went with his eyes.

Jerome walked to one of the fire bins and dropped his bloodstained clothes into its depths. The low-quality material didn't burn like cotton, it bubbled and hissed, releasing the acrid smell of plastic as the clothes sunk into the embers. When he was sure the clothes had been properly disposed of, he walked back to his caravan.

For a blind man, Cicero had cleaned up the caravan pretty nicely. The only piece of evidence left lying around was the cut glass bowl leaning against the back wall. Mr Cicero was sitting on Lila's bed with red rimmed eyes. If it hasn't been for the steadiness of his tone, Jerome would have thought he's been crying, "Jerome. We need to start quickly if this is going to work".

Jerome leaned against the door frame, listening. "What did you use to -ahem- do the deed?", Cicero's voice shook slightly.

"A hatchet", Jerome dead-panned, watching the blind man's face for any sign of what he was thinking. Mr Cicero swallowed and nodded, "Yes, uh, a wooden handled one?".

"Yeah", Mr Cicero was shaking slightly, "Fetch it", he handed the younger man a piece of paper, "Scratch these markings on the handle and throw it off Gotham bridge into the park".

Jerome took the paper and raised an eyebrow, "Wouldn't it be smarter to just get rid of it properly? Remove all evidence". Paul Cicero shook his head, "No, we need to lead them off in another direction. These markings are from a satanic ritual, it will distract the police into suspecting an outsider rather than one of us".

Jerome nodded, "Okay", and left.

He didn't know why Mr Cicero was helping him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care. About anything, actually. To be fair, the old man had always had a bit of a soft spot for him, ever since Jerome was young, and thinking about it just sent him into a spiralling contemplation that resulted in him having to take a step back and just accept it. Sometimes people were easier to just accept.

By the time Jerome had finished all of Cicero's instructions and walked back from the bridge to his caravan, the blind man had left and the sun was starting to climb above the horizon. He walked over to the crystal glass bowl on the floor, picking it up and carrying it to the sink. As the bowl filled, Jerome planned what he would do next. He needed to make it seem like a normal day, so as soon as the rest of the performers caught up on what had happened, he could avoid suspicion. Bruce's face swam into his mind's eye, and he clenched his hands on the counter. He didn't want to go to jail quite yet, he still had to prove someone wrong.

He knew when they'd found her, because Owen and Alphonse were stalking around each other with red eyes. Their two families were also circling younger members, and it was perfect. They deserved that. Taking Lila from them was killing three birds with one stone. What did surprise Jerome, however, was the fact that no one came up to him to talk about it. Maybe they thought it would make him explode, maybe they thought he wouldn't care. Either way, it meant they didn't think it was him.

The nights performance began without anyone saying a word, even about the act that clearly wasn't going to happen.

To Jerome's delight, Owen turned on Alphonse during the show, disrupting the Greyson's performance and starting a fight between the families. It was perfect. It happened before his act, so he could keep up the pretence of oblivion. After all, ignorance was bliss. The two heads of families were accusing each other, starting a fuss and placing blame. Creating suspects. All the circus members were talking in hushed voices about which one they thought did it, but nobody even considered Jerome.

He retired back to his caravan at the first shout of, "GCPD!", leaving whatever unfortunate detective had stumbled across this dirty little problem to arrest whichever Owen or Alphonse he thought was the start of this mess. It wasn't ideal, everything would have been easier if the police never found this, but he could work with it. Extra reparation from whoever the detective deigned guilty.

Unsurprisingly, the detective came to Jerome's caravan, introducing himself as Detective Gordon, with his pretty date to ask him questions. Jerome didn't have to try hard, a sweet, worried son wasn't very suspicious at all. The ringleader's decision to cut him out of the loop was working in Jerome's favour now, as he argued vehemently that Lila wasn't the sort of girl to disappear off early in the morning, despite the ringmaster's claims.

Jerome spied out from behind his mask of innocence, watching detective Gordon. The police officer wasn't looking directly at the ringleader or Jerome, he was looking between him, straight at the caged snake behind them.

When Gordon asked for Clipper to be let out, Jerome's eyes narrowed slightly. Snakes weren't tracking dogs, but considering the sheer amount of time Clipper had spent with Lila, as well as the fact that the snake would have seen Jerome dragging her out the caravan made him edgy. Her sense of smell was better than a dogs, and if she didn't find the body of his mother, there was always the possibility that she would attack him.

Chances were his probability of being caught went up if this became a police investigation, but if he didn't co-operate to the fullest extent, his level of suspicion would skyrocket. Jerome unhooked the cage door, and Clipper slid out, staring at him for a moment, before her tongue darted out and began to slid away.

Albeit, when she led the detective right to where the ringleader had stashed the body, Jerome wished he'd gutted her along with the other one. He fell to his knees, wailing pitifully, and the pretty woman ran to his side. His performance was excellent, if he did say so himself. And the cop barely glanced at him whilst he called in backup. There were going to be a lot of arrests tonight, Jerome smiled internally.

Jerome was almost disappointed, the idiot police didn't notice anything odd about Owen Lloyd's trailer, despite the drug stash inside, and released all the murder suspects that night with a warning to stay in city borders.

The circus was split in two that night, the Grayson's sitting around one fire bin on the left side of the circus with their group of supporters, and the Lloyds sitting around another with their people on the right. Jerome was sitting with the Lloyds, much to Owen's delight. He sat Lila's son on his right, (where his son Dan should have sat) directly in the line of sight of Alphonse. Dan sat to Jerome's right, glaring angrily into the fire bin. Owen cawed about it being proof, the fact that Jerome wouldn't sit with the Greyson's suggesting that despite what the young man said about having no idea who did the deed, he also believed it had been the other family. Oh the irony.

Cicero was sitting with the Greyson's though, and Jerome was watching him intently. Every now and then, he'd catch Cicero glance at him sadly, but if the old man wasn't going to blab, he wasn't an issue.

At just past midnight, the groups disbanded, walking back to their caravans whilst eyeing the other group suspiciously.

Jerome slept well that night.

The next day, Jerome sat down and begun a plot to take down Owen Lloyd, trying to think of the most fitting way to take him out, just desserts, as it was. He was so absorbed in his planning he thought nothing of the knock on his door the next morning, "Come in", he yelled distractedly. The ringmaster poked his head through the door, "Uh, hi Jerome, there's a police officer here, he want to take you to the precinct for a few questions", Jerome's heart begun to beat slightly faster, not in fear but in excitement.

Most of Jerome didn't want them to find out it was him, but a little part of him wanted recognition for the game he'd created, especially considering how unappreciative Cicero was about the fruit of his intelligence. "Sure, what's this about?", a policeman in his early forties stepped into the caravan, glancing around with a wrinkled nose. Jerome didn't like him already.

"The name's Detective Bullock, and I can't tell you jack till you've spoke with the big guy", he grunted. Jerome blinked rapidly, "Yeah, uh, of course! I'll come right away". He grabbed a woollen jacket to pull over his shirt and followed the detective eagerly. "Have they found who killed her?", he said quickly, trying to inject just the right amount of righteousness, sadness and anticipation into his tone. Bullock didn't glance at him as he was forcefully directed into the back of the police car, and walked around to the front.

Jerome's excitement and fear was growing. Had someone figured out it was him? Had Bruce gone to the police? For some reason, that dimmed his mood. He didn't want that. Even if he'd been rejected by the young billionaire, he liked to think that Bruce had cared for him enough not to do that. Jerome thought about what would happen if they had evidence it was him. He wasn't really afraid of death, heck, if he could create enough of a scene, he'd be immortalised in journalism for weeks.

Maybe Bruce would be sad. Jerome would like that, in a selfish sort of way.

Bullock just stared straight ahead for the whole journey, and Jerome sat quietly, trying to school his expression to give nothing away. If nothing else, he was going out with a bang.

•

Jerome liked to think he could anticipate twists in stories quite well.

Maybe that didn't apply in real life. That, or he'd been especially thick.

Jerome dropped his head and started to cry, desperately trying to buy time. Cicero said he was his father. Either he was lying, or his father had been in the circus the whole time.

The whole time. Lila just couldn't resist it, could she? Oh and how he'd swallowed that lie. Despite himself, Jerome started to laugh. It seemed fate liked to throw him curve balls, see what he would do. He wouldn't play along with that.

What sort of father gave up his own son to the police? Jerome was sure if he hadn't felt a far more brutal betrayal in the last forty eight hours, he might even be a bit hurt. Why not expose her manipulation to his daddy at the same time? Hurt him back a little bit.

They'd got him now anyway, thanks to his father.

"My mother, was a cold-hearted whore who never loved anyone", Jerome rumbled deep in his chest, "And she'd never touch a pathetic, old creep like you". It worked, hurt flared in the old man's eyes, "All these years, do you think I was kind to you because I'm such a good man?", Cicero said bitterly, "If I wasn't your father, would I have helped you as I have after what you did?".

A flash of surprise blossomed in Jerome's chest, Cicero really had loved her after all. Not him though, just Lila. He inhaled sharply. It was all over now though, no chance of wriggling his way out of this one. Jerome's eyes flickered from Cicero to Detective Gordon for a moment and back again. "My father, hm!", Jerome leaned back in his chair, "Well, I'll be damned".

They all just stared at him for a while, "Uh, that's very funny", he informed them, before beginning to laugh again. It was hilarious! The moment he thought life couldn't get any shittier. After a few seconds he got his laughter under control, "Ba-dom-chh!", he grinned, mimicking a drumroll.

"Looks like the bitch got me with a zinger in the end", Jerome muttered dryly. Of course she wanted the last word. Couldn't ever just shut up and leave him be, she always had to ruin everything.

Detective Gordon was giving him that look. The one everyone gave him. Everyone except Bruce. "Why'd you kill your mother, Jerome?", he asked coldly. Jerome ached to reveal the drug den, his whole body longed for it. It could even work in his favour really, but that would drag Bruce into everything. It would've been fun trying to explain that his mother was plotting to kill the wealthiest preteen in all of Gotham though.

"Oh", Jerome said lightly, "You know how mothers are". _Lying, unfaithful, lustful, greedy, murdering whores_. "She just, kept, pushing", she should have known Jerome would protect Bruce, it was her own fault really.

He forced his tone light again, "And I'm like, 'Fine mom. Be a whore. Be a drunken whore even'", he paused, anger pulsing through his bones as he thought of what she'd wanted to do, "'But don't be, _a nagging, drunken whore_ ". Jerome was practically snarling by the end of his speech, and he had to reign his anger back in, "You know?", he said airily.

Jerome bared his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile, "Don't come yell at me to do the dishes", his tone darkened, "If you've been _banging_ , a clown in the **NEXT ROOM!".**

"You know?", he grinned blackly.

•

The cells in the precinct weren't hugely different from Jerome's living conditions back home. It was grimy, dusty and smelt slightly like covered-up mould. The only difference was the bars. He sat in the middle of the bench in the largest cell, his expression ensuring he was left well alone.

Needless to say, he had a lot of time to think. He considered what would happen to him next. It was highly likely they would just cart him off to county and leave him there to rot, but there was always the chance that he'd get the death penalty if the court was feeling spiteful. Depends how badly they'd think of someone killing their mother.

When they'd thrown him in the cells, a rather rude Detective Bullock had made a snide remark about how he'd be transferred to county pretty soon, before a trial even. The criminals in the cells had liked that. Hooting and licking their lips as Jerome stood there and stared them down. The detective had left looking pretty happy with himself.

Jerome was aware he was attractive, often to both men and women, but it had always been an advantage before now. As the low-lives eyed his full lips and lithe figure, he got the impression it would have been better for him if he was balding and overweight.

They grew bored after a while, or maybe it was Jerome's death-promising gaze that warned them off. Either way, they soon left him to his thoughts.

Jerome was surprised, however, when an annoyed looking Detective Bullock slunk back into the holding cells not three hours later, followed by a tall man in an expensive suit. "Valeska", Bullock yelled, "Get over here".

Jerome slunk over, eyebrows raised, and he leaned against the bars aggravatingly, "Detective Bullock! Back so soon! Did you miss me already?". The detective grit his teeth, "If I'd had my way, you'd already have been shipped off to county without ever seeing a fair trial, scum". Jerome pulled a wounded face, "So cold!".

The suited man placed a firm hand on Bullock's chest,  
"Harvey", he warned lowly, "Don't make me use your actions in my testimony to save this boy". Jerome looked between the two eagerly, "Ooh! Are you my lawyer?", he smacked his lips mockingly, "I swear, I didn't do it sir".

Harvey shook his head in disgust, "I really wish you didn't have this one", he muttered to the suited man, before unlocking the cell, dragging a grinning Jerome out by his collar, and locking the door again.

Bullock put them both in the interrogation room Jerome had been in earlier, handcuffed him to the table, and left. "Bye Harvey!", Jerome called after him, before settling down and taking a good look at the lawyer. He grimaced theatrically, speaking with a street accent, "First, I gotta say, I didn't do it Doc, it was all Cicero". The lawyer watched him for a long moment, before he spoke, "No pro-Bono lawyer anywhere would be able to get you out of county, and there would be no chance in hell one would be able to secure a court date two days after the arrest and take back a declaration of guilt".

Jerome leaned in, "I'm lucky you're not just any pro-Bono lawyer then, aren't I?". The suited man sat back, "What makes you say that?", and Jerome rolled his eyes, "As if a pro-Bono lawyer would be able to afford an Armani suit".

The suited man smiled and extended a hand, "It's nice to meet you, Mr Valeska, the names Match, Milo Match".

•

"-And that, your honour, is why we cannot send this poor soul to county. We would be abusing our position as protectors of the ill if we place an unstable man in an environment that wouldn't offer the help he so desperately needs", Milo Match sat down, and Jerome glowered at the Woden desk he was sat at. Milo had insisted the only way to get out of life imprisonment in a practically inescapable holding cell was to plead insanity.

Jerome knew with every fibre of his body that wasn't true, and his resentment about having to sit there and agree was cutting to say the least. He wasn't crazy, just smart and a little strange. They were the ones who couldn't see like he did, they were the ones who feared the unknown.

The prosecutor looked a bit green, and the Jury seemed decided.

The judge nodded, looking up from the signed statement of insanity Match had revealed, and asked the prosecutor if they had anything else to add, with their curt, "No, your honour", he stood, "Jury, will you please elect a foreman and reach a verdict". Jerome watched them, five of the twelve jurors looked contemplative, yet the other seven seemed nonplussed, just like Match. He leaned towards his lawyer, mouth opening to ask a question, but before he could speak, Milo shushed him with a confident smirk, and Jerome frowned. He hated it when everyone but him knew something.

"Members of the jury will your foreman please stand", a short, trembling man on the end of the line got to his feet, a piece of paper clutched in his sweaty hands. The judge continued, "Please answer this question Yes or No: have you reached a verdict by which you're all agreed?".

"Y-yes", the bald man trembled, his eyes glancing nervously at Match, who smiled encouragingly, "We accept Jerome's plea of insanity, and believe he should be admitted to Arkham Asylum in Gotham City".

•

Milo stood up after the statement, smirking down at Jerome, "Not just any old pro-bono lawyer huh". Jerome regarded him for a moment before speaking, "Who hired you?", Milo shrugged, smirking, "You are my client, Mr Valeska".

Jerome sighed, "That's not what I asked you. I asked you who hired you.". Milo pulled out a business card, and handed it to him, "Please don't try and slit your wrists or hang yourself with this, it would be a lot more difficult to fix than blackmailing a jury", before walking off, his long coat swishing behind him. Jerome looked down, and a triumphant grin split his face.

Jerome laughed. He laughed so hard his chest hurt and tears were streaming down his face even as the orderlies from Arkham Asylum began to lead him towards a padded van. It wasn't just him, this thing went both ways. Bruce Wayne wasn't finished with him yet, as Jerome wasn't with him.

The business card was composed of thick, silvery grey card, with black indented writing across the front spelling out an unfamiliar name and number, but what caught Jerome's eye was the other side. Emblazoned proudly in gold lettering, were the words , 'WAYNE ENTERPRISES'.


	5. Chapter 5

"Jerome? Jerome are you listening?".

Jerome didn't like this one. She was annoying, commanding. Today was too important to for him to be distracted by self-righteous psychiatrists, he was fuzzy enough as it was.

They were giving him drugs, some sort of cocktail that had made him high at first, but had tempered down with the years to a light buzz. Jerome didn't like them. They made him think of cocaine, and he didn't like thinking of the cocaine.

Jerome didn't really talk to the shrinks anymore. At first he was alight with burning anger and wit, but eight years of Arkham would dampen anyone, and what Jerome lived for wasn't within these walls.

It had been hard to keep tabs on people on the outside from in here, but Jerome had managed. The TV was a great help, it meant he could keep track of the days, keep track of the news. And there were ways of contacting the people behind the walls, you just had to know the rotten ones. There were mildewy wardens that could be spotted from miles away, and someone just had to know what to look for to tap into them.

Luckily for Jerome, Gotham was still carious, and desperate people would do anything these days, if you could flash some cash that was. And as Lila's only son, Jerome's bank account was stashed full of drug money.

The psychiatrist gave up after five more minutes, and let him leave. She knew he wasn't going to say anything, and as long as Jerome swallowed the pills they gave him, they didn't really care.

Jerome drifted into the patients lounge, trying to hide the distaste that welled up within him whenever he caught one of their eyes. They were crazy, he wasn't, but this was better than prison. Jerome smiled at the pretty blonde warden that walked past him, following her with his head. She glared and marched away quickly, not looking back, and Jerome's eyes drifted to the TV, maybe she'd heard of him? Some people didn't like it when they were housing a murderer, he supposed. He chose the chair he could get the best view from.

A few other patients were staring at the screen, but Jerome was the most interested.

The news was on. Finally. Jerome's eyes hardened slightly, this was a delicate operation after all. They only had one chance. The police wouldn't know it was him, how could they? But Jerome would know. And that was all that mattered.

It was live footage of a convict during a trial. There was a reporter talking into the camera, Jerome already knew what she was going to say though. The court had just broken for lunch, and the man was being led away by the police, probably back to whatever holding cell he'd been in before the trial. Jerome's smile twisted into a grimace. This man had no right to a trial. What he'd done. The whole justice system was screwed up, and some people just deserved to die.

"Falcone says hi!", a woman yelled from the crowd.

A gunshot rung out, and the cameraman jostled. Some of the wardens stepped uncertainly towards the TV, but Jerome jumped to his feet and grabbed the remote. A few of the other patients started screaming, whilst the carers floundered. Jerome didn't look away, he needed to know it was done. A debt he needed to repay. A warden realised what was going on in the TV, and tried to pull the remote from Jerome.

Jerome's eyes were fixed on the screen as the camera panned in. The convict was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, and the shooter was being dragged to the floor by the police. The reporter was yelling, frantically trying to keep the viewers up to date with what was happening, but it was clear when the police stood up that the man was dead. Jerome let the wardens take the remote, and he was shoved to the ground.

The camera panned to another man whilst the warden with the remote fumbled to turn off the TV, and Jerome's eyes softened. A twenty year old Bruce Wayne stood stock-still, silver glinting from under his sleeve. Jerome laughed, the self-righteous Bruce Wayne? About to shoot a man in cold blood? Jerome had been right, of course he's been right. Jerome was almost sad he'd arranged the whole thing, but a debt is a debt.

A sharp sting in his legs was the only prelude to a soft fuzziness in his vision, but Jerome didn't stop laughing, not until the drugs had completely fuzzed his vision over with black.

•

"Why did you keep the wardens from the remote, Jerome?".

It was the same annoying, blonde psychiatrist again, trying to get Jerome to open up. They didn't suspect him of course, who would think a random, locked-up, insane circus performer had any connection to the culling of the man who murdered Thomas and Martha Wayne? Jerome looked at the woman uninterestedly, before going back to his thoughts, and if there was one thing Jerome'd had time to do whilst in these walls, it was think.

He'd left a business card, on the shooters body. In return to the one Bruce had left him. It wasn't clear, didn't have a nice number or contact details, but it was a clue. A clue to the greatest mystery orchestrated in Gotham's history. Bruce wanted to be a hero, so he'd need a villain. Not just any old yahoo in a suit with unoriginal ideas though, no, Bruce deserved someone better than that. Jerome would be that villain, he'd be brilliant, original and devious. Everything Bruce needed. Then, when Bruce no longer needed a villain, Jerome would join him.

"Jerome?", he ignored her.

The police wouldn't think anything of it yet, it would just be a random piece of evidence that had been on scene. It would get squirrelled away, deep in an evidence locker somewhere, to be found later by a disbelieving police officer. That was what Jerome wanted. He'd leave breadcrumbs through Bruce's life, to be followed back one day, back to the root.

"Jerome? Why did you try and keep the remote from the guards?", Jerome frowned, she wasn't going to shut up. He leaned forward, smiling fiercely, and as she recoiled, he hissed, "Oh, you know how it is, darling. A man has needs. It was the first death I've been able to witness since I killed my mother". The psychiatrist began to frantically scribble in her notebook, a soft blush colouring her cheeks and Jerome leaned back slowly, a plan starting to fall into place in his head.

If Bruce needed a villain, Jerome'd better start acting like one.

•

Bruce was running. Not literally, in reality, he was walking at a steady pace into the docks, but he was running none the less. He wasn't drawing any unwanted attention thanks to the raggedy coat he had acquired from a homeless man after the incident in Falcone's bar. It hadn't been Falcone, despite what the hit woman had said. That meant it had been someone else, someone who had something more to gain from the death of the Wayne Murderer. Bruce needed out, he needed time to get his act together away from this city. There was a cargo ship up ahead, and if Bruce could just make it that far, he was free.

He couldn't stay here anymore. Gotham always dangled things in front of his face before taking them away; his parents, a normal life and-. Bruce stopped that train of thought where it stood. He didn't think of him anymore. Bruce just wanted to leave. He wanted to finish what he'd started and get stronger, strong enough to protect everyone who needed protection.

Bile bubbled up his throat when he though of the gun at the bottom of the river. He'd almost killed a man. After all this time, he'd been trying to get stronger to help people, but he couldn't let it go. Even now. He couldn't let it go. He hadn't been able to get justice for his parents, (and perhaps a part of him was a little relieved he hadn't pulled the trigger) but he could get justice for everyone else. Everyone else who had suffered from street crimes or lost loved ones because of Gotham's corruption.

Bruce pulled himself up onto the ship's deck, glancing around to make sure there were no crewmen who'd seen him, then slipped into the cargo hold.

He peered out, eyes soaking in the graphite skyscrapers against the bleak skyline.

As soon as he had found himself, he'd be back. Bruce swore it, before he shrunk down against the crates, getting ready for a long journey.

•

Jerome smiled innocently when the carers put everyone in their cells that night. It wasn't an unusual day. The whole remote-snatching thing had blown over after a few weeks (despite the fact that he'd been banned from the common room) and none of the guards were really paying him any attention. That wasn't to say it wasn't an important night though, quite the contrary. Tonight was the night Jerome would get out.

He waited on his bed for lights out, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't nervous, in fact he was rather calm about the whole thing. Money could get you anywhere in this world, it was the key to Gotham. Quite literally. Jerome pulled a heavily fashioned key from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers thoughtfully. Well, money and charm.

The lights turned off.

If he wanted, he could let out some of the truly insane, the ones who killed thoughtlessly and carelessly. It would cause quite the distraction, but it would take longer, perhaps too long for Jerome to make his escape successful.

The door moaned quietly as it was unlocked and pulled open from the outside, and Jerome inhaled deeply. "Do you smell that, Miss Quinzel?", he smirked, "That's the smell of Gotham City welcoming me back home". The blonde psychiatrist stuck her head in nervously, "We'd better go now, Mr J", Jerome sat up and walked to the door, he paused before he left the room, giving it a last once-over. He'd spent a good quarter of his life in that dump, rotting and forgotten; that was their mistake. He spat on the floor, before smiling indulgently at Miss Quinzel, "Let's get out of here, darling".

The corridors seemed almost too long, and in the dark, the groans and screams of the patients were positively scary. Jerome didn't fear them, though, he was in his element here, moving quickly through the dark. Harleen stopped in front of a barred door, and looked at Jerome meaningfully.

Jerome twirled the key around a finger, winking at the blonde psychiatrist, who giggled quietly, before pressing it into the lock. "As soon as you turn that key, the alarm is going to go off. It's a run to the front door. If we make it that far, it's home ground", she whispered, glancing around them nervously, Jerome smiled, before leaning forward and pecking her cheek. She smiled sweetly, and Jerome turned his back.

The moment she couldn't see his face, the lovey mask snapped, and he was single-minded once more. A smile ravaged his cheeks, and with one twist of his wrist, the air around them became host to a wailing siren and misty red light. Jerome took off, tearing down the corridor. He didn't look back to see if Miss Quinzel was following him, he just ran. The front door bobbed in front of him as he ran down the stairs. His red jumpsuit tugged into the joints of his limbs as he raced towards the door. The way was clear, all he had to do was get the key into the lock and he was free.

A shout echoed down the hall behind him, and Jerome ran faster. Huffing laughter escaped from his chest as he jerkily turned the key in the lock, ignoring the quickly approaching running steps. He was going to make it. They weren't close enough.

He burst through the doors, whirling around for a moment before he spotted the car, and was running again. It wasn't his, of course, he'd just payed off the thugs inside to get him away once he was out. The guards swore as they barged through the front doors and saw Jerome yanking open the car door.

They began to swarm towards him, but Jerome just waved jauntily and leapt into the backseat. He watched through he back window as the thugs pressed the accelerator to the floor, and screeched away. The guards and Arkham got smaller and smaller as Jerome got further and further away. His smiled disappeared, he'd lost eight years of his life to those damp walls. He needed to make up for lost time.

Cold eyes found those of the thugs in the rear-view mirror, "Take me to Wayne Manor".

The foreboding house looked exactly the same as it had eight years previous. It was distant and refined, with expensive fixtures and fountains scattered generously through the grounds. Jerome grimaced, he didn't like it. It was too harsh for Bruce.

The thugs dropped him off at the gate, satisfied with the promise of the rest of the money going in tomorrow. Jerome walked up the drive, looking at the one lit window upstairs in the manor. It wasn't Bruce's room, and Jerome frowned slightly. Something wasn't quite right.

He climbed up one of the ornate drainpipes, nose wrinkling at the gothic style. Creeping along the stone ledge linking the windows on the second floor, back to the wall, Jerome breathed deeply. The fresh night air was a luxury he hadn't enjoyed in Arkham, and a sweet smell like late-summer honeysuckle wafted up from somewhere in the grounds. He continued to edge towards the lit room, and as he neared, he began to register the sound of angry conversation.

"What do you mean, 'You don't bloody know'!", it wasn't Bruce, that was for sure. Jerome listened closer, "How does one just lose the richest man in Gotham! It's been three bloody weeks! Someone has to have seen him!", it was the Butler, Jerome realised suddenly, being dragged back to that day in the hospital.

Ice trickled down Jerome's spine. Bruce was gone? Where? He couldn't just vanish. His fists clenched unwittingly; Bruce was an excellent fighter, someone didn't just lose that, fighting was like riding a bike! So unless he'd been viciously outnumbered, he'd left on his own.

Jerome edged back along the ledge and down the drainpipe. He was looking in the wrong place, Bruce would have gone somewhere far away, and if he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.

Jerome stopped and looked back at the mansion. Bruce would be back, he had too much invested in this city to just abandon it, so Jerome had better wait for him. That was okay, he was good at waiting. In the meantime, Bruce would be training, getting faster and stronger, so Jerome would have to compensate.

Jerome had better build a nice, anarchic little society for his hero to crush, and for that, he'd need to be iconic, a wild-card, he'd need to be remembered. Nobody would give a shit about a twenty-six year old nobody, so he'd need to become better than that. You needed to kill the bad guys to make a better city, stamp out the stain, not just hide it away to fester. Jerome needed to show Bruce that, to prove him wrong. He'd clean up this city from the inside. He'd manage to place himself in a position where he was perfectly hidden in Gotham's court, where nobody would suspect this man to be Jerome Valeska. He'd just need to wait for his king to return.

Jerome stopped, looking down at his reflection in a puddle. He'd need to be Gotham's Joker.

But first, before he could do any of that, Jerome needed to pay a visit to Haley's Circus.

•

•••TWO YEARS LATER•••

It had started off as such an average day.

A nice little bank robbery to keep the mercs happy, and top up their growing cash pile whilst their leader schemed was well underway. Jerome swung a handgun around his finger by the trigger guard, the upper half of his face concealed by a slightly battered clown mask. Not that he needed one, the Joker was pretty well known in Gotham by now, but he was sentimental about this mask, and it went oh so well with his scars. He was also nostalgic about the ones the thugs around him were toting, but in a slightly more bloody way.

"Okay boys, wrap it up!", Jerome said lightly, kneeling by one of the hostages, "Don't worry folks, if you keep your mouths shut and stay still, you might just make it out of here alive!". He patted the man on the shoulder, straightening when he let out a muffled whimper, eyes wide and fixed on the Joker's cheeks.

Jerome wasn't lying, this job wasn't really about the money, that was just an added bonus. This job was about who he was stealing the money from. Specifically, Don Falcone. The Joker had decided that Don Falcone's cash had gone untouched for too long, and he'd switched from raiding Maroni's banks to the older gangster's. They had to be kept in line, and interested. Jerome was simply stringing them along until Bruce came back, then they'd make an example of them.

The two men had just finished loading the last of the money into the van, and Jerome strolled up to them before jumping into the back. "That's all for now, folks! Hope you enjoyed the show, and be sure to tell Don Maroni that it was little old me who swiped his billions", he grinned. A harsh bark of mirth was dragged from his torn lips as one of the thugs promptly turned and shot the other in the back of the head. The hostages recoiled when the body hit the floor, and Jerome smiled condescendingly at them from behind his mask, before tightening his grip on the handgun, and shooting the other thug through the skull. Those idiots never learnt, you think they'd have put two and two together when they were told to systematically kill off the team members by themselves.

He leant out to grab Dan and Owen Lloyd's masks from the floor, and placed a small, rectangular piece of card on one of the bodies, before he pulled the back of the van doors shut and backed out of the broken glass windows. Jerome turned round, admiring the loot. He'd done rather well for himself this time. Yet to be fair, after three years of working his way up to crime boss, Jerome would be ashamed if he couldn't pull off a little heist nowadays. And Falcone and Maroni couldn't touch him, to his delight. He was too smart, too fast, and too unpredictable.

Jerome brashly drove the van along all the highways, all the way to the dodgy warehouse where he kept his cash. There was quite the mountain in there by now, millions of millions of dollars just sitting there. Maybe he could hold a candle to the Wayne fortune now, especially considering he was a self-made man. Jerome liked that thought, of them being equals, of balance.

"Boss", as Jerome jumped out the front seat of the van one of the clowns ran up to him, "There's something you're gonna want to see, it's about the Waynes". He'd made sure all his employees knew that they had to tell him if anything interesting ever came up involving Wayne Enterprises. They just thought it was because Joker wanted to stage a large-scale theft, which was convenient, as it kept them motivated and very happy to comply.

Jerome's eyes sharpened greedily and he nodded. His obsession with the Wayne heir hadn't dimmed over the years without communication as one might have thought, instead, it had burned down to a red-hot, near dormant ember; concentrated but discreet. Jerome lusted after news on Gotham's king, and quietly awaited his lackey's elaboration, but the thug paused, "Where's the other guys? You got twelve men in the back of that thing with the money too?".

Jerome pulled off his mask, the greasepaint on his cheeks crinkling as he smiled, "They didn't make it, there was, ah, technical difficulties. Anyway, you were saying?". Aghast, the mercenary frowned, "Technical difficulties?", the corners of Jerome's mouth turned down, and he looked disappointed for a moment, before sighing, and lifting his handgun to shoot once more.

"Anyone else got any questions?", he snarled towards the other subordinates as they began to unload the money, his good mood quickly receding at the insubordination. Who did they think he was? "No? Nobody else here wants to doubt my judgement?", predictably, the hired muscle shrunk away.

Jerome stepped over the body. One more dead criminal, he was doing Gotham a service. "What was he going to tell me, before he got cocky?", Jerome walked in front of the mound of cash, something akin to boredom crossing his pupils as he surveyed his riches. When nobody spoke up after a few second of silence, he whirled around to face them. "What? Are you all mutes?", he began to stalk towards the nearest thug, "I said, **What. Was. He. Going. To. Tell. Me!".** The thug stared at the floor, flinching when the Joker grabbed his chin, "I-I don't know, boss", he mumbled.

"Don't know!", Jerome let out a high pitched, jittery laugh, "Don't know?". He grabbed the man's throat suddenly, growling out, "Then _what do I pay you miserable excuses for_?". Jerome sneered and let go, allowing the thug to stagger back behind the others.

He took a deep breath, before lifting a hand daintily, "So! Whoever can tell me what nosey over there was going to say about Wayne right now gets one million dollars!". A skinny clown with a frowny mask stepped forward uncertainly, and Jerome bowed dramatically, "Ah, we have a volunteer".

"I-It's about Bruce Wayne sir, rumour is he's coming back to Gotham", the thug flinched away from Jerome's gun as the young man's face split into a gruesome smirk that pulled up the edges of his ears, and spun the gun around his hand. Finally, that era was approaching. The era Jerome had been planning for ten years, in all the time he'd been away from Bruce. He stopped suddenly and took a step towards the frowny clown, "Are you sure? Are you completely sure he's coming back?". The clown nodded frantically, "Y-yeah! Yeah, I saw 'is butler take off in the plane, 'n my mates in the station confirmed it". Jerome smiled, more softly this time, before grabbing one of the duffle bags and throwing it at the man's chest, "Now don't go spending it all at once", he said teasingly.

Jerome laughed, falling backwards into the pile of money, "You think it's been fun so far, boys?", rolls of hundreds slid over each other like balls in a ball pit, "The show hasn't even begun".

•

"Master Bruce, sorry to be so intrusive, but might I ask what you meant in the plane earlier", Alfred asked casually. Bruce had his hands carefully clasped in his lap, and was staring out the window at Gotham's skyline, "I meant exactly what I said, Alfred, Gotham needs something to believe in". Alfred coughed, "Right then".

The Bentley turned into the grounds of Wayne Manor, driving up to the main entrance. Alfred walked round to open Bruce's door, "There are a couple of new faces on the streets, new crime bosses, one in particular", he continued, leading the billionaire up the steps. Just as Alfred's hand touched the doorknob, a loud bang echoed through the grounds.

Bruce leapt backwards, head swivelling as he tried to pinpoint the origin of the sound. Above. A firework had exploded over the manor, and as a soft fluttering filled the air, something landed next to Bruce's feet. He bent down to pick it up, noticing that oddly, it was a rectangular piece of patterned, red, laminated card. More began to drift to the floor, hundreds and hundreds of these little pieces of card.

Bruce's eyebrows creased together in confusion as he examined the rectangle. Every single one was a different version of the same playing card.

Alfred walked up to his young master, examining the playing card cautiously, "The new crime boss I was telling you about? He calls himself the Joker".

•


	6. Chapter 6

"And now, we have breaking news coverage that a known terrorist calling himself 'The Joker' and his gang is holed up in one of the Gotham City Banks with ten hostages, threatening to blow it sky high if Don Maroni doesn't transfer £50 million to an unspecified bank account".

Bruce Wayne stopped halfway through his fifth set of pull ups as the reporter on screen swapped for live coverage of the Gotham City Bank. It was surrounded by police and SWAT teams, red lasers held steady on its dark doors and windows. A red, spray-painted smiley face came into view from its position on the chained front doors, with a ransom letter written in what looked suspiciously like green wax crayon. A joker card was taped next to it, grinning manically.

This was the fifth bank the so-called Joker had hit in the last three weeks, each getting more and more vicious, but he hadn't taken hostages before.

Bruce grimaced. He'd been trying to focus on the mob, and had come up with a brilliant scheme involving marked bills and perhaps the police to track their money and hit them where it hurts. He'd been ignoring the Joker as of yet, because he was only targeting mob banks. But it was looking more and more like this Joker was currently the bigger problem, especially if the bastard was now taking hostages.

"This reporter wonders if the mysterious masked vigilante sighted twice in the last two weeks will turn up tonight to save these people, and prays he will".

The camera zoomed in again, scanning over the building, catching a slight movement in one of the windows. Suddenly, a bright light shot out of it, and an echoing crackle then burst of static was torn from Bruce's TV. The sirens were turned off, and a deafening silence fell over the street. Bruce watched as Detective Gordon came on-screen, staring up in front of the cameraman.

The camera swivelled to look behind itself, and projected onto the building opposite, was the foyer of the Gotham City Bank. Ten people were tied up on the floor, six women and four men, with thugs in clown masks standing around then with guns. Bruce frowned. Those masks looked awfully familiar.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to the Circus!", a voice called out from off screen, "I must warn you now, these acts are neither safe nor fake, and anything you see in this establishment must not be repeated by anyone except trained criminals!". A cackle burst fourth, and a tall, slim man with shaggy, green hair falling chaotically around his face moved into view. His face was mostly in shadow, but even in the darkness Bruce could tell there was something almost too-pale about it.

The tall man tilted his head slightly to look sideways at the camera, and Bruce realised it was makeup. His face was layered in greasepaint, white skin and cold black eyes, with a red semi-circle stretching from both corners of his lips towards his ear lobes. The man's cheeks were rough-looking on camera, and with a sick sense of realisation, Bruce realised there were two scars stretching from both corners of his mouth to his ears.

The man's pupils seemed so blown that Bruce couldn't even tell what colour his Iris's were, from the excitement or illicit substances, Brice couldn't be sure. The projected face smirked widely, continuing after its pause, "And here, even the slightest drop in concentration could lead to, ah, death".

Bruce narrowed his eyes, he couldn't ignore this any longer, "Alfred! I'm going out tonight!".

•

"So, what I'm trying to get at is that until the money is transferred to this account, Don Baloney, I will shoot one of the hostages! Yes, that's right folks, one every ten minutes! And then, we initiate plan B", he grinned, leaning into the camera, "And B, stands for Boom", The Joker sat back and shrugged, palms up, looking innocent, "It's not too difficult to tell which is the cheapest option, considering the fact that there's $500,000 cash in the vault. I'll give you One. Hour. To get the money into the account, before I start to get impatient". The Joker leaned back in towards the camera, so close that only his curving mouth was in the frame, " _Good luck_ ", and the projector turned off.

Bruce crouched on the roof of the building opposite, scanning the windows of the Bank. There was one open on the corner of the third floor, and if he timed it right, he could hopefully swing in without being seen.

The window had been a bad idea.

There were no thugs in the room, but someone had set up a large bowl of water just under the window, and Bruce's boots were now squeaking against his heels.

This was not a good start.

His sodden clothes stuck to his skin wetly, steps squelching too noisily. Despite this, he crept along the quiet corridors almost silently, a testimony to his training over the last three years. Bruce had just pushed open the doors to the foyer when he realised it was too quiet, and dark.

A breathy voice tickled his ear, "You know, It's polite to knock". Bruce spun on his heels, feeling exposed in only his balaclava and black woolen jumper, but he couldn't see. It was too dark, the police had cut the power, leaving only the phone lines intact. Something moved behind him, and Bruce spun again, unable to pinpoint any of the thugs location. He closed his eyes, listening carefully. A slight swish of clothes to his left preluded a sharp jab, and Bruce smirked when his hand hit soft flesh.

The man went down, something cluttering to the floor next to him. Bruce blindly fumbled towards where he thought his face was, feeling out the outline of a pair of goggles. He ripped them from the wounded man's eyes and pressed them to his own. Yes. Night vision goggles.

He's triumph quickly soured, however, when he realised the room was almost full of muscle. There had to be at least thirty men with goggles and guns aimed at him. Bruce raised his hands, allowing one of the me to get close, before he struck. A scatter of surprised gun shots fired out, and Bruce was weaving around the bodies before he could think clearly.

There was no longer any real need for the goggles, the blinding shots were lighting up the room like some sort of sick strobe, but neither was there any time to remove the cumbersome objects. This was not looking good.

"WHAT DO YOU FOOLS THINK YOU'RE DOING!", a man screeched out from the doorway, and the thugs paused in their actions, their guns rattling silent.

Bruce grabbed the nearest man and pulled it in front of him, panting. There were two bullets in his left calf, one through his right shoulder, and he was surprised he could stand straight. The man in the door way hit a switch, forcing the emergency generator to weakly light up half the room. Bruce cursed and dragged the thug into the darkness, watching wearily as the new light revealed the man to be the Joker.

"You. Do. Not. Shoot. Him", the clown growled as he stalked into the room, each word on a step. Bruce pressed himself against the far wall, watching the man advance on one of the thugs. The man swallowed nervously when the Joker grabbed his collar, the gun hanging limply in his hands as he was shaken, "Who started it? Who started shooting". The thug trembled and said nothing, his mouth floundering uselessly.

The Joker snarled and dropped him, "Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter", he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else, before brashly calling out to the shadows, "You're alive! Aren't you?".

Bruce panted, one hand around the thugs's neck, the other clutching his shoulder. Warm blood was dripping slippery between his fingers in a steady _plit, plit, plit_ on the floor. The Joker titled a hip thoughtfully, "Yup, I can hear you breathing. One of the strong, silent types huh?". Bruce leant gingerly on his damaged leg, wincing then frowning angrily. There was no way he'd be able to get past them all on this leg. Not a chance. Most of the thugs had pulled up their goggles, now was his chance.

The Joker began to prowl towards the shadows, hands held up in an ironic pantomime of harmlessness, "Why don'tchu step on out here, let us talk, like men!". Bruce pointed the unusual gun from the thug straight in front of him, aiming carefully. The nozzle aimed at his target, and he pressed the trigger.

A bullet plunged into the light switch, drenching the room in darkness. The Joker cursed, leaping towards the figure against the wall. He pressed the man back against the plaster, ripping the balaclava off to reveal a face. The wrong face. It was a thug, the one that had been held hostage by the vigilante. The joker smiled as he turned his head slowly, "Clever. Very clever. You took his armour, yes? So any one of the thugs in this room could be you? Very good plan, smart. The only problem is, that you're the only one bleeding".

The Joker cackled as he levelled his eyes with one of the thugs to his right, "Come on sugar, don't make this too easy for me". The thug leapt to the left, out the door and down the corridor. Eyebrows raised, the Joker twirled his gun around his finger, looking round the room, "Gee, you guys think it was something I said?".

•

Bruce was moving as quickly as he could with his left leg pretty much dragging behind him uselessly. This was bad. Somehow, he was going to have to get the hostages out and to safety without bleeding out, whilst avoiding the homocidal clown. That would all have been so much easier if the hostages were where they had been on the TV.

The corridor swam in front of his eyes. He needed to stop, to rest for a moment, or he was going to pass out.

Falling into a wall to his left. Bruce peeled back his hand from the shoulder wound. Grimacing, he ripped away part of his sleeve to try and crudely bandage the ripped flesh. He'd just finished, when the emergency lighting flickered on, and the corridor was half-bathed in a sickly yellow light.

A speaker crackled in the ceiling, and Bruce glared up as the Joker's voice filled the corridor, "Hello and welcome to Joker's funhouse! This is a game of Evol!".

"I would like to take the trouble of welcoming our final contestant to the field! May we all give a warm welcome to the 'Masked Vigilante'!", Canned applause echoed down the silent corridors, and Bruce pulled himself to his feet.

"You really should come up with a better name, by the way, 'Masked Vigilante' sucks", the Joker paused, "Anyway! Your first task will be revealed as soon as you make your way to the safe, and if you don't get there on time, you may be short-changed on a few hostages". Bruce snarled, pulling himself to his feet and limping down the corridor, the Joker's laughter echoing tauntingly through the halls, "I've set up such a nice surprise for you when you get there".

 _Give it up_ , began to drift tinnily through the speakers, and Bruce sped up, running through the pain. There were so many flights of stairs and doors. Most of the metal doors were left propped open, but Bruce had to break through all of the closed wooden doors he came through. It was taking too long.

As if on cue, the Joker faded out the song and sniggered into the microphone, "What's taking you? Seriously, you might want to hurry up, it's just a couple of doors!". Bruce roared as he smashed through the last one into a wider corridor. There. The safe was at the end, and three people were kneeling in front of it, tied up and blindfolded. A couple of masked black thugs stood around them, the muzzles of their guns trained on the hostages.

They all turned at the same time, bringing their guns up to fire as Bruce crouched and zigzagged towards them. Bullets skittered around him, but Bruce sent a silent prayer of thanks to his training when he reached them and disabled their weapons without being shot. He carefully knelt next to the hostages (there were two men and a woman), untying them and pulling the gags free. He left the blindfolds on though, too risky.

"P-please don't hurt us", the woman whispered, face screwing up in fear. Bruce breathed slowly, "It's okay, I'm here to help you-", a slight scuff behind him meant he dived aside just in time.

An axe thudded into the floor in the space he'd just been, and as the hostage screamed, laughter crackled from the ceiling, "You didn't think it'd be that easy, now did you?". A huge, muscled man wielding an axe glared at him from under a clown mask. It was one of the ones from the video earlier. "Task one! A big, scary man who's twice your size is here to attack you, what do you do?", the speaker taunted, and Bruce twitched. There was something too-familiar here, he didn't like it.

The man suddenly ripped the axe from the floor, coaxing another hiccuping squeak from the female hostage. He raced towards Bruce, weapon extended, and Bruce neatly sidestepped, allowing the clown to run head-first into the wall behind him. A nasty crack resounded through the hall, and the clown crumpled.

A small, silver camera in the corner of the room caught Bruce's eye as it swivelled from the unconscious man to him, "Well, that was a bit of an anti-climax", the Joker sighed, "Fine, fine, take those hostages to the front door, you can let them go there, but don't forget about the other seven! You have to find the others too, remember!". Bruce grit his teeth, and hobbled back towards the hostages, reaching down and pulling them to their feet.

"Hold onto me, I'm getting you out of here", Bruce growled out, trying to disguise his voice, and began to make his way back up the corridors.

•

Jerome smirked and spun around in his chair as he watched Bruce lead the blindfolded hostages up the long stairs towards the door. Oh, the thrill of joy that had raced through his body when the cameras revealed that his adversary had shown had made all those long years worth it. It was perfect, everything was going according to plan! This was more fun that he'd hoped!

Bruce was playing along so nicely, and it was obvious the years apart had been kind to the billionaire. His body was tightly muscled, and in spite of the thick black trousers, the Joker could see his thighs flex impressively as he half walked, half dragged the hostages to the exit. Even with the blood loss, his strength must be incredible.

Flicking a switch, the screen swapped from Bruce to another cluster of hostages. There were eight this time, but no thugs around them, and as soon as Bruce had dropped his charges off with the police, he'd fall straight into the next challenge.

Jerome leant back, grin lining up with the red artificial grin across his cheeks, this was going to be _such fun!_

•

It was Detective Gordon who wordlessly accepted the hostages from Bruce at the door. Although he didn't recognise him, one long look up and down Bruce's torn facade earned a terse nod from the intelligent Detective, and Bruce was allowed to retreat back inside, gritting his teeth as the doors swung back and relocked as soon as his back was turned.

Somehow, the unspoken blessing from Gordon rekindled the fire inside him that had been dimmed at the injuries Bruce had received. The burning desire to achieve justice was coursing through him and concealing his body's pain as he focused on the task. The slight fuzziness around his vision became easier to ignore, and when the lights went out, Bruce was ready.

He pulled the night-vision goggles back down over his eyes. Painted on the floor in front of him in neon green paint, was an arrow. It pointed out from the foyer into into the depths of the bank. Bruce lifted the night vision goggles to look at the blank space in the floor, before replacing them to watch the arrow swim back into existence. That had been painted hours ago. This was planned. Which meant this whole operation had relied on the masked vigilante showing up. But for what purpose?

As much as Bruce was now loath to trust anything the Joker had left for him, he needed to play along just long enough to save the hostages. "The next challenge is just down this hallway", the Joker sniggered, "This time, there's four to save, you feeling up to it?".

Bruce limped down the hallway with determination, his eyes meeting every camera he saw angrily. Then he came to a door. It, like the arrow, was painted invisibly to the naked eye, and the speakers rattled when he paused. "Well? Aren't you going in?".

Bruce glanced around the doorframe for any foul play, but coming up empty, he pushed the door open warily. The room was well lit, with eight bound and gagged hostages in the middle of the room, but there was nobody else there. The walls were bare, and there was nothing decorating the room for anyone to hide behind. Bruce didn't like it.

He took one step into the room, and when nothing happened, another. Five strides took him to the hostages. He was just reaching to untie one of them, when the Joker spoke, "I wouldn't do that, if I were you".

"Round two! You have proven your battle readiness and raw strength, but now you must prove your intelligence. Half of these hostages are real hostages! But half are clowns in disguise. If you take the wrong ones out, they will send out a signal setting off a bomb somewhere in the city!", Bruce took a step back. Walking around the group. There were six men and two women, but they all looked terrified. There was nothing separating one from another, all their clothes were the same, and all gazed up at him pleadingly.

Bruce turned his back, and walked out from the room, back in the opposite direction of the arrows, and up a floor of the bank. "Where are you going?", the Joker yelped over the speakers, "Aren't you going to save them?". Bruce was walking with purpose through the corridors, and Jerome only realised at the last moment, towards the control room.

The Joker crooked an eyebrow curiously, but it was impossible. There was no way Bruce could tell. He watched on camera as the masked vigilante kicked down the control room door and barged inside.

Bruce growled. The clown wasn't even there, instead, there was a device with many twisting wires hooked up to the monitors, and a note leant carefully against it's side. It was in the same red crayon as the ransom letter, ' _Wouldn't disconnect this if I were you'._

"Push the button and speak into the microphone to talk to an employee", The Joker said in an mockery of a public service announcement, and Bruce spotted two buttons on the machine next to a extended microphone. He glared up at the camera in the corner.

"Well I couldn't make it that easy", the Joker's voice teased, "You have to choose. Which button is the right one? And which..", a screen flickered to Bruce's left, revealing a hostage wired up to a pile of dynamite, "...Will blow up the hostage". Bruce just stood there for a while, before sitting down in the chair. A annoyed scuffling ratcheted down the speakers, "And I'll blow them all up if you don't choose!".

Reaching out, Bruce ran his finger over the left button. It was the smaller one, black and inconspicuous next to the bulging red button next to it. Not flashy. Before he could change his mind, Bruce pushed it in.

Nothing happened. There was no resultant explosion, and the hostage in screen didn't change, she didn't even move. Bruce froze, eyes fixed on the corner of the screen. It read 19.03.45. It had read that for the last minute.

"Joker", he growled down the microphone, knuckles white. Jerome sat back in his chair, grinning, "You were lucky, weren't you? Tch tch tch, if that had been the wrong one!". The masked man on screen grit his teeth, and pushed the black button in again, "Where are the real hostages?". Jerome quirked a brow, "Real hostages? Back in that room where you left them!", "Those weren't the real hostages. They were all your lackeys".

Leaning forward, the Joker narrowed his eyes, "What makes you say that?".

Bruce smirked, a self-satisfied, devilishly clever smirk that sent a surprised bolt of lightning zinging down Jerome's stomach, but the expression was gone in a second. If Jerome hadn't been absolutely sure about his sanity, he would've doubted he'd even seen it. Face once again schooled, Bruce spoke, "There were only two men left from the hostages in the video earlier, and there should have been five women. If you want to trick me into blowing up Gotham, you'd need to be more accurate with your details", Jerome narrowed his eyes. This was something new, something he hadn't seen in Bruce before.

Jerome forced himself back into the moment, slapping his forehead, and grinning widely, "Well spotted, Touché!". The masked man onscreen dropped his smile, completely serious, "Where are the other hostages". The Joker chuckled, "I had so much more planned, was really going to make you run, but that was clever. Really clever, so I'll give you a grand total of five hostages for free!". Bruce dropped his hunched shoulders in surprise, before tensing again, "What's the catch?". "No catch! Just a small gift between friends. Let me see, they're on the second floor third door to the right. There won't be any guards, and the front door will be unlocked".

Bruce took off, out the control room and down the corridor. He hated it, but he had to trust the Joker to save these people. His eyes were getting slowly more fuzzy, and the world was spinning slightly. He looked down to his shoulder, where the bandage was soaked through and dripping. He pushed himself through it, determination fuelling his weak body.

The hostages were exactly where the Joker said they would be. Four women and a man, the same ones from the video earlier. The journey back down was incredibly painful, with the bullets deep in his calf dissing in worse and worse with every step. Bruce had to lean against the doorframe of the bank as he handed over the hostages, and Detective Gordon's eyes lingered on the blood-soaked rag tied around his shoulder, and the steadily leaking holes in his leg. He didn't say anything though, only nodded sharply, and escorted the blindfolded hostages away.

This time, when the doors closed behind the last hostage, there was no knowing cackle from the black disks in the ceiling, there was only silence. Even with the night-vision goggles over his eyes, Bruce couldn't see anything to tell him about the last two hostages. He had to endure the long, painful drag to the control room once again.

"Joker", he snarled into the microphone, "Give me the last hostages now!". It was silent for a few moments, and Bruce was a little worried the man had just left, before the same voice filled the control room, "What's the magic word?". Bruce's hand snapped out to brace himself on the desk as he wobbled, " _NOW_!". The Joker sighed, "So impatient, one would think you didn't want to spend time with me". Bruce began to growl, low in his throat, and the same lightning zapped from Jerome's sternum downwards.

The Joker wasn't exactly sure how he felt about this new development. It was distracting, and he had a job to do. He needed to finish the job, then he could retreat to think this over. "Fine", he sighed, "One last game, then you can leave, but you can only have one. And you have to choose". A cold smile creased the corners of Jerome's mouth, "You decide which one lives, and you can only save one in time, I'm afraid".

A shard of ice replaced Bruce's spine, "In time?", he muttered, and a huff of laughter came out the speakers, "Yes. In exactly five minutes from when I press this nice, red button in front of me, this lovely bank will be but a smear on the pavement".

" **Where are the hostages**!", Bruce roared, "I'm going to tell you!", the Joker laughed, "I'm going to tell you where they both are, and you'll have to choose, but first, I'd better give you a bit of a backstory for these two".

"The woman is a thief and a murderer, she's killed countless people over the last two years, and the police have been looking for her for even longer", The joker paused, "And the man is one of Don Maroni's head honchos. He's one of the big-shot cocaine dealers, spreads thousands of pounds worth of product through Gotham's street a year, and lives like a king because of it".

The Joker leaned back and forwards in his chair, the squeaking piercing through the speakers, "He's in the managers office, and she's in the safe. Who will you save?". Bruce stood there for a few seconds, frozen, and the speakers crackled, "I hit the red button two minutes ago, by the way".

Bruce was running. He tore down the corridors like he was completely uninjured, only stumbling on the odd occasion when his leg decided to give way. He went down, down the staircases, underground. Past the still-unconscious body of the axe-wielding clown, and to the door of the safe. It was open, thank god. And crouched inside was a dark-haired young woman. She glared up at him defiantly, and Bruce's breath caught in his throat.

 _Selina_.

He swept her up in his arms, not even bothering to untie her, and took the stairs two at a time. What was worse, was the Joker had taken to counting down the seconds.

"15, 14, 13, 12", Bruce was at the top of the stairs, "11, 10, 9, 8", in the foyer, his left leg threatening to give way, "7, 6, 5, 4", the door, the front door was barely meters away.

"3, 2, 1".

The bank exploded. Glass shattered and a noise like the roaring of a monstrous beast shot over Bruce's head from his position behind one of the police cars. People screamed, and the groaning of the metalwork the only warning before the building started to collapse. Bruce left Selina, running back towards a pair of cops that were standing too close, were going to be crushed by the falling building. He snatched them up in either arm, dragged them out of the danger zone, before collapsing barely five meters into the nearest alley. He could barely move.

Knocked on his ass, singed, bullet-riddled and bleeding, Bruce was a pitiful sight. He barely managed to pull his phone from the back of his torn trousers, and his hand was shaking so badly. Bruce's vision was so fuzzy it was a miracle he managed to call Alfred at all. His arm gave up, falling weakly to the floor and letting the phone skid to a few meters away, squawking.

_"Master Bruce? Hello? Master Bruce?"._


	7. Chapter 7

Everywhere hurt.

Bruce lay there, eyes closed as he slowly came back towards consciousness. It was soft, he was lying on something soft, and it smelt familiar. He cracked an eyelid open, and the light that barged in was easily categorised as painful.

"Nice to see you alive, Master Bruce", Alfred's dry sarcasm barely hid the relief in his voice. Bruce tried to snark back, but his throat was so dry that what he delivered was barely a hoarse groan. A glass of water was carefully brought to Bruce's lips, and a hand on the back of his neck tilted his head so the cool liquid could trickle down his throat.

"God, what happened?", Bruce coughed after the glass had been taken away, clenching his muscles tenderly. Alfred placed the now empty glass of water on the table, "Well, after you collapsed in the alley from blood loss, I had to track the GPS in your phone to find you. I brought you back here, because of your delirious ramblings against hospitals, and administered a blood transfusion. You do realise how lucky you are that I'm also B negative?". Bruce lifted a weak arm to place on Alfred's bicep, "Thank you, Alfred".

Trying to sit up, Bruce let out a low groan as his back protested against the movement, "Selina, the Joker. What happened after I left?". Alfred sighed, "Selina got away before the police could get to her, and there was no sign of the Joker when the damage team searched the wreckage. My guess is that he got away, sir".

Bruce exhaled sharply, "He'd planned it, Alfred. He wanted to lure the masked vigilante there, and had set the building up as some sort of sick game", Bruce shook his head, "I don't get him, Alfred. I don't get why he did it. He didn't want the money; he blew up the damn bank before anyone could get to the safe! What sort of criminal does that?". The butler's eyebrows drew together in concern, "Master Bruce, this man is insane. Sometimes, trying to pry apart the head of a mad man just leaves one more confused afterwards than they were when they started".

"It just doesn't make sense", Bruce muttered, lifting an arm, to his head and wincing, "Jesus, why does everywhere hurt?".

"Well, you did loose a lot of blood, and as well as the bullet wounds in your calf and shoulder, I'm quite sure you pulled a couple of muscles", Alfred sat down, "I recommend at least a week in bed". Bruce laughed, "Not a chance, how long was I unconscious? I need to be seen in work".

Alfred narrowed his eyes, "You'll have to get past me first, and I don't think that even with your youth and physical strength, you could more than stumble in that condition".

Bruce glared back, swept his legs over the side of the bed to stand up, and promptly collapsed on the floor. Alfred leant down to pick him up, "So, would sir prefer the master bedroom or the study?".

•

The radio was on.

"And finally, the Billionaire Bruce Wayne hasn't been in work for the fifth day this week, because of a reported contraction of the flu".

Jerome laughed at that. Look at them all, so oblivious! It didn't matter, Jerome almost liked it, the whole secrecy of their affair. The Joker was unknown, the masked vigilante was unknown, but Jerome knew. Bruce would too, soon, but still, he was proud of the younger man's progress.

The whole city was still reeling from the explosion, but even more importantly, Bruce had let a bad man die. Granted, not directly, but still, he'd chosen to save the girl, and therefore let a drug lord die in the explosion.

It was okay, Jerome would work Bruce up to it, then they could take this city on together. A systematic extermination of the corrupt.

The men who had been stupid enough to get trigger happy in the foyer were all dead. He'd tied them up as the hostages for Bruce's second test, and Jerome had made sure they were still inside as the flames overtook the building. He didn't know which one shot first, so he'd left all of them. He'd told them not to shoot.

Jerome's mind presented the image of Bruce smirking into the microphone, his intelligence and strength baring its teeth ferociously, and the resultant lightning in his gut. Jerome wasn't sure what to think. He'd been attracted to men before, he'd even tried it out (much to the disgust of the other circus hands), but this was different.

Arousal had been a slow fire that would wormed its way up from Jerome's crotch on occasion when he'd been younger, but this thing had been electric. It hadn't been ignorable. This demanded every sense and swept all else off the ledge of his mind, taking centre stage. Bruce had been an obsession for over a quarter of his time on this earth, a debt he had to repay, and the closest he'd ever been to another human being in his life. Yet, not even in the long hours pent rotting in Arkham, had he ever thought of the younger man like that, not till the incident at the bank. All that ferocity snarling up at him, all that power, it was stunning.

This was an okay feeling, Jerome decided. He could tolerate it as long as it didn't compromise things. There was no way anything could keep him from his task. They would be together again afterwards, but he had to make Bruce see things clearly first. Bruce couldn't survive as Gotham's hero with his views as naive as they were.

Jerome wasn't trying to hurt Bruce, just make him stronger, so he'd give the billionaire a few days to regain his strength. After all, they'd barely begun their story.

•

Bruce hated sick days. He abhorred the boring, monotonous hours spent just lying there, between his silk sheets. He needed to get back out there, back into Gotham. People needed to know that he was on patrol, forcing the buckled chaos back into a semblance of order.

But Bruce couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to do something more. The 'Masked Vigilante' was just a man, temporal, corporal and killable. The Joker had proven that, and criminals would be getting cocky. Bruce needed to be something bigger to take down the Joker.

He thought about the way this man held himself. He thought about how his clothes and makeup and body language all added up to be this perfectly crafted weapon of fear. People didn't see the Joker as a man, they saw him as a monster.

Bruce needed to fight fear with fear. He needed to become intransient, a concept that would not only strike fear into the unjust, but to give hope to the innocent. To do this, Bruce knew he needed to hang up the anonymity of the persona he'd chosen and, ironically, take a leaf from the Joker's book. He would need to create a symbol.

A calculating expression manifested across the young billionaire's face. Alfred wouldn't be back to the manor for another three hours, and he knew just the person to tackle his dilemma.

Getting to Wayne enterprises hadn't been as difficult as he'd thought. The receptionist had mentioned her surprise at him coming in so soon, but had willingly pointed Bruce in the direction of applied science. It was in the very bottom of the shabbiest corridor in the building, and Bruce huffed out a small laugh. His friend always had been a pain in the arse for the higher ups.

Bruce strolled into the room, eyes scanning the floor until he came upon the man he was looking for tucked up at a desk chair tinkering with what appeared to be a complex, chrome set of pulleys and leavers. The man turned his head, eyeing his guest.

Lucius Fox had aged well.

"It's nice to see you so soon, Master Wayne, I hope the flu didn't knock you down too badly", Lucius smiled demurely as he spun around in his chair to face the billionaire. Bruce smiled back; he'd always liked the wise technician, and in their time apart, he had to admit he'd missed the older man slightly. He was glad to be able to see the genius so soon.

It had been five days since he'd woke, and this was the first opportunity he'd had to get to the company without Alfred breathing down his neck. He was just lucky it wasn't Lucius's day off, "No, I was out of commission for a while there, but I'm back in the game now". Lucius nodded, "And to what do I owe the pleasure?", Bruce pursed his lips thoughtfully, trying to think about how to put it.

Lucius wasn't the sort of man to divulge secrets, especially not about the Wayne's, but Bruce didn't want to place the man in a situation where he could be targeted for any information Bruce had given him. This needed to be approached with no half measure of tact, "You see, I heard you have some, uh, interesting equipment down here?".

Lucius raised an eyebrow, "Interesting equipment? I'm afraid you'll have to be a tad more specific, Mr Wayne. Applied sciences is a very diverse devision". Bruce attempted at a disarming laugh, "Yes, you see, I've developed an interest for, um, spelunking". Lucius looked at him for a long moment, before speaking through a knowing smile, "Sure thing, Master Wayne, please, follow me". Of course Lucius would put two and two together faster than any of Gotham's detectives.

Bruce followed the older man further and further into the depths of the building, and as they walked, he realised just how huge applied sciences really was. The corridor alone was a ten minute walk, with countless doors and other halls branching off it. He should like to explore someday, tease out the secrets in these walls.

Eventually, Lucius pushed open a doorway, and led Bruce through.

A beautifully lit, high-ceiling space with a concrete floor revealed itself, with scattered tables and large cases throughout the area. "These might interest you, Master Bruce", Mr Fox said knowingly, popping the lock on a tall box.

Bruce leant over to look inside. There was only one thing inside; an all-in-one camouflage, armoured bodysuit. He carefully extended a hand to stroke the chest plate, "This, Lucius, is perfect", the older man watched Bruce stroke the Kevlar, "Does it come in black?". Lucius inclined his head, "I'm sure I can whip something up. Before you run off 'spelunking', there's one last thing I want to show you".

Bruce was led over to another table, and Lucius grinned like a schoolboy as he lifted the lid.

The contents of the box were slightly less climatic than the bodysuit. Bruce smiled weakly as Lucius pulled out a large black sheet of matte fabric. Lucius caught his eye, and laughed, "It's not just black cotton, Master Wayne, this is a soft fabric in usual conditions, but if you pass an electric current through it-", the black fabric shot to attention, rigid as steel, "-It becomes a profoundly tensile, almost high density polymer resembling material. Will you be requiring headgear too?", Bruce shook his head, enthralled by the garment in front of him, "Thanks, but I've got that covered".

Lucius shut the box, "Shall I call Alfred to come pick these up?".

"No", Bruce blurted, eyes wide, "Uh, I mean, No, thank you, that's not necessary, I'll take them back myself".

•

"Master Bruce?", Alfred called out into the corridor behind the fireplace. The sounds of a metal saw whirring echoed up the corridor, "Master Bruce? Will you be requiring any supper?". After waiting two minutes for a reply, Alfred signed and walked off, muttering under his breath, "Rude little shit".

From his place at the workstation deep in the natural cave structure, Bruce gently blew the aluminium dust off his carefully-weighted new piece of equipment. Bringing the metalwork up to his face, Bruce ran the slender icon through his fingers, and threw it against a wooden target to his left. He seemed satisfied when he walked up to it, pulling it free from the centre of the painted circles.

Walking over to another black box, Bruce placed the last aluminium bat next to its sisters, and closed the lid. He looked above it, straight into the empty eyes of the black mask. This was perfect, a symbol criminals could fear and the just rely on. The black eyes of the cowl stared evenly back, and Bruce felt the pull. The part of him that just knew what to do in battle was clawing its way out, it was black, cold and thirsty for justice, and it liked the costume.

Alfred walked down the stairs into the cave, carrying a silver tray, "Since the Masked Vigilante is too good to answer when he is called, I took the liberty of bringing his dinner down here". Bruce didn't turn around, his throat tight and gravelly, "Not the Masked Vigilante, I'm something else now". Alfred placed the tray on the table with a sigh, "Thank god, that was the worst name I think I've ever heard for a vigilante".

Catching sight of the costume, Alfred's eyebrows shot up, "Bloody hell, Master Bruce. Lookin' like that you ain't gonna have to fight 'em, they'll bloody run away". Bruce smirked, "Thank you, Alfred. What do you think of the, uh, theme?". Alfred nodded solemnly, "Very fitting, sir. Personifying your childhood fears", he swallowed thickly, "Everyone will be afraid".

Bruce picked up the cowl, stroking down the cape absentmindedly,"I needed to be a symbol, Alfred, and this was the only thing that felt right. The criminals of Gotham deserve to feel afraid". He turned to face the older man, pulling the cowl up over his head, "I don't think I'll be eating tonight, Alfred".

The butler sighed, "Very good sir, but before you go, I had an interesting call for Mr Fox earlier, asking whether you would spares, saying you didn't say when you called in a week ago". Bruce stiffened, and Alfred continued, "And I said that was funny, because I had expressively forbidden you from getting out of bed for another three days back then".

Bruce turned his head, a weak attempt at a disarming smile on his lips, "About that-". Alfred glared, waves of anger radiating off him, "Don't say another word, Master Bruce".

•

Gotham was relatively quiet that night, to Bruce's relief. There had been a few muggings he'd prevented and one convenience store robbery, but nothing that smelt like clowns. He wanted to test out his new equipment, and if anything failed, he'd rather it be against some thug than the Joker himself. His toys were beautiful, the Cape was warm and dramatic, and with its more practical use, it added to his overall image. The metal batarangs flew true, and his Kevlar suit was protective whilst not being too heavy.

Bruce stared across the roofs, and something resounded deep in his bones when he thought of the clear streets he'd allowed that night. The same part of him that had stared angrily from deep within him when fighting purred contentedly inside. Bruce wasn't sure what it was, this calling he felt deep within him. It was starving for justice, and completely overwhelmed him whenever he leapt in to disarm an opponent. It was all consuming, a part of Bruce that he himself hadn't known existed. It made him better though, stronger, so he accepted it. For the greater good.

A clattering on the fire escape to his left caught Bruce's attention, and as he quietly approached, the thing in the darkness within him swooped down to claim his body. Black, intelligent eyes stared down at the man on the fire escape. He was clutching an overflowing bag of possessions in one hand, and trying to close the window behind him. The caped man above him simply reached down, grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him up onto the roof.

The thief yelped, letting go of his loot as he came crashing down onto the rooftop. As he regained his sense of gravity, the robber blinked up in confusion at the huge, masked man dressed in black armour in front of him fearfully. "Wh-Who are you?", the masked man simply bent over, flipped the thief on his stomach and tied his wrists, before picking him and the loot up, walking to the edge of the roof, and jumping off.

•

"I'm telling you, Detective! It was a bat! A huge bat! He grabbed me, tied me up and flew off the building!", Detective Gordon stared coldly at the rambling man. He was a known thief on parole, and as predicted, he'd fallen back into bad habits, "So you're telling me a man dressed as a bat, beat you up and then flew you here?", he dean panned.

The thief glanced between Gordon and his partner, before throwing his hands in the air, "No I'm lying! How the hell could anyone make this shit up? You tested me right? No drugs in my system? And you know I'm not crazy! There. Is. A. Huge. Bat. On the streets of Gotham!".

A door behind the two cops opened, and a female policewoman stuck her head in, "Sorry to interrupt, Detective Gordon, but you're gonna want to see this".

Gordon stood open mouthed as he watched the TV, specifically, the CCTV footage on the news of a black, caped man dressed as a bat dropping from the ceiling onto a man robbing a convenience store. "Many are speculating that this is the 'Masked Vigilante' Gotham has got som familiar with over the last few weeks, but with a change of dress. The man people are now calling, 'Batman', shares many things with our favourite crime fighter", the reporter on screen switched to a slightly-balding man in his late thirties, "That's correct, Miranda, we've carefully analysed this recording against the ones we have of the Masked Vigilante, and our results show that not only is it the same person, but he seems to be getting even better at fighting. His technique is simply incredible-".

The TV was turned off. All the officers crowded around the screen turned in confusion, to face a furious commissioner Loeb standing on the balcony. The older man was practically spitting as he yelled, "This is not to be tolerated! Do you know what will happen when it gets out that Gotham has an insane, masked criminal out beating up other criminals? It will be anarchy!", he braced his arms on the handrail, "This, 'Batman', is to be treated exactly the same as the terrorist known as the, 'Joker'. Arrest on sight! Do we understand?".

The cops in the room were silent for a moment, glancing at each other in confusion, and Loeb brought his fist down on the banister, "I said, do we understand!". A quiet murmur of acknowledgement rose up from the crowd of police officers, Loeb nodded in satisfaction, before turning and stalking off.

Harvey Bullock elbowed Gordon in the ribs, "So now, we're gonna go around arresting the guy who's doing our job for us? I've half a mind to send the guy a fruit basket!". Gordon just stared at the now black screen thoughtfully, "Hmm".

•

Jerome drank in the news. 'Batman', Oh it was perfect. Ironic, brilliant, meaningful and it played so brilliantly along with his plans.

A vague memory of hurtling black shapes in a fever dream crept up on him, and Jerome shivered in a mixture of fear and delight. The costume was brilliant, he could admit that, it was scary and mysterious, concealing Bruce's identity whilst protecting him and making him iconic. How, Jerome almost felt outdone!

"Hey! You, yeah, you!", Jerome yelled over at one of the clowns playing cards in the corner. The man pointed at himself dazedly, and Jerome rolled his eyes impatiently, "Yes! You, idiot, get over here!". The muscular clown lumbered over, "What's up, boss?", Jerome pulled at his own ragged collar, "What's the most expensive tailor in Gotham?".

The clown just blinked down stupidly for a moment, "Uh, there's a shop uptown called 'Fredrick's', and I've head some mates saying it's where Don Maroni goes to get his suits. Even claims Bruce Wayne's been there a few times". Jerome pondered this over for a moment, before a wide smile ravaged the scars on his cheeks, "Perfect. Grab half a million and take me there immediately".

The suit was very nice. Jerome stood in the tailors mirror admiring himself, yes, he looked sharp, intelligent but sophisticated. Bruce would like that. The colours offset his makeup, making his irises look more green inside the black smudges over his eyes. The green waistcoat was a slightly lighter shade than his heavy, green woollen coat he'd recovered from his contact in Arkham, and the colour made his smile seem more offsetting against his face. The memory made his cheeks twinge, but he pushed it back. This was not the time.

His shirt was patterned linen, crinkling comfortably around his elbows and torso. Jerome liked the slight roughness, it was pleasant against his skin, and the octagons decorating the material were brilliantly chaotic. "How much do you want for three sets?", he muttered distractedly to the trembling tailor. Fredrick glanced between the Joker and the gun a muscular clown had trained on his head, and swallowed, "Uh, for you, sir? Only £200,000". The Joker shrugged, gesturing for the clown to pass the notes over from the bag.

"I've left a little tip, only a quarter of a million, for your silence. Please understand, this is, uh, only insurance. Your head will roll if you mention this to anyone", he smiled darkly, drawing out his next sentence, "Trust me, I'm a man of my word".

•

"Come on, comeoncomeoncomeon", Jerome muttered from the top of the Gotham life building. The opposite tower was in flames, orange tongues tasting the air, waiting.

The Joker made for a menacing silhouette against the moon, his green hair sticking up at random angles and the white greasepaint on his cheeks smeared slightly with black from his eyes. There was wailing sirens and screaming from below, and all in all, it was a perfect trap, all stoked with bait and ready to catch a bat. A soft, almost unnoticeable swishing noise came from behind him, and Jerome smiled softly, then spun around.

"Come to see the show?", The Joker said lightly, "You're a bit late, but I'm sure we could make an excepti-ACK", there was a hand around his throat. Standing on the roof behind him was a figure all clad in black, large cloak spread out behind him. Jerome's breath caught in his throat for a moment when Bruce looked up; it was different seeing him like this rather than on TV. All the childish softness had disappeared, leaving behind hard lines, bulky muscle and something else, something dark. Something twisted in Jerome's belly. Brucey had sure been working out.

The cowl was a nice effect, Jerome noted internally, it was well made, some sort of black plastic, and the angles within it made it look like the batman was frowning intimidatingly. "Why are you doing this?", Bruce growled from deep in his chest, and Jerome's stomach tightened further. "What? This? In the name of Evol, and, well, because it's fun", he whispered, eyes soft and fixed on the black ones in front of him. Eye makeup. Jerome didn't like that. He'd loved Bruce's eyes, they were so open and warm, like roasted chestnuts. The makeup just dullened the colour. When Bruce saw the world properly, Jerome would make him take it off.

"No. You're doing this to get me to come out here", Batman muttered, tightening his grip on the Joker's throat, Jerome pantomimed a gasp, "What! Why would you think that!". An angry rumbling vibrated through Batman's chest, and he thrust the Joker towards the edge of the rooftop, where one could see the ten meter wide cut-out bat shape in the side of the flaming building. "Oh! That? That's not a bat, that's an owl", Jerome informed him seriously.

Bruce snarled and slammed the Joker into the concrete floor. He giggled, a pained cough coming from his throat, "Okay, okay! It's a bat, happy? I thought it was time we had a little heart to heart in person". Bruce tightened his hold, "And what makes you think I'm not just going to hand you over to the police right now?". Jerome lifted a hand, "Oh, nothing much", his sleeve fell back to reveal a syringe. The Joker grinned widely, and plunged the needle into the soft, unarmored area inside Bruce's elbow. Batman grunted, the effects were almost instantaneous.

Jerome smirked as Bruce crumpled, cloak spread out around him like wings, "I see why they call you Batman, that had to be intentional in your part, very smart". He sat down next to the vigilante, "It's only a mild paralysing agent, by the way, you'll be on your feet again in an hour". The light from the flames lit up the Jokers features, and the man just looked at Bruce for a moment, then lay down next to him. Their heads were inches from each other, both looking up at the smokey, ashed Sky. The Joker spoke quietly, "Why did I call you here? Why am I doing all this? I've already answered your second question, but your first? Because you interest me, Batsy". He wriggled, "So righteous, so self-sacrificing, yet you wouldn't kill any of those bad men. That's your rule, isn't it? No killing. Sometimes you need to kill, you know, some people just deserve to die".

"I will make you break it, you know, your one rule. It's just not practical. It's for your own good, really", Jerome got up, looking down at the slack mouth of the man on the rooftop, and a strange look crept into his eyes. "I didn't know either, for a little while, why I was doing all this. I figured it out though, only very recently. See you around, Batsy", he murmured, and left.

Bruce lay there for another forty five minutes, watching the flames get beaten down by the fire service, and eventually, when his limbs would lend him control again, he sat up, shaking, and stumbled home.

The Joker'd had him completely at his mercy. He could have killed Bruce right there and then, or revealed his identity, but all he'd done was talk. Why was he so obsessed with that? With making Batman kill? Bruce shook his head. He could spend years puzzling over that mind, because it was deranged. That was the only explanation, the Joker had to be crazy.

Bruce just wished the Joker's eyes weren't so intelligent, or painfully, painfully sane.

•

The Joker was proving to be a massive problem. Detective Gordon groaned as another file with the smirking psychopath face paper clipped to the front was placed on his desk by an apologetic Sarah Essen.

"Sorry, the guy hit a nightclub again last night, one under Mr Cobblepot this time". James sent her a tense smile, "Thanks, I'll add it to the pile of Joker-related crimes, and I'm sure Oswald will be in shortly".

As if on cue, the double doors from the street into the building flew open, and two muscular men walked through, followed by the Penguin. It didn't take long for Oswald's furious eyes to find Jim's, and the crime boss was shuffling towards his desk. "Jim, I want him dead", Oswald placed himself in the chair opposite James, and faced the detective as calmly as he could.

Oswald Cobblepot was renown for his restraint, and to see the man so ruffled was a rare instance. James, picked up the file from his desk, "I assume you're here to talk about last nights incident involving the Joker?", he asked. The Penguin leant forward, practically hissing, "Of course I'm here because of that psychopath! This is the fourth time he's targeted one of my establishments! And he made off with three million! Three million! I want him found!". Jim nodded, pushing his glasses further up his nose, "I understand, of course. But that's easier said than done. The only one who's had any luck with the Clown is Batman".

Oswald took a deep breath and sat back, "Of course!", he groaned, "Why didn't I think of that. I should call up the vigilante taking out criminals to get rid of the criminal raiding my illegal establishments. Great idea". Jim Gordon's mouth turned down, "Oswald. Our, and the Batman's, greatest concern right now, is the Joker. I highly doubt the man will place your establishments above this terrorist". Cobblepot didn't look impressed, "So what, you want me to team up with the Batman then?".

Gordon shrugged, "I'm not saying that, just that your connection may be able to drag something on this unknown person up". Oswald sniffed, "And if I acquire such information, what, I give it to you and you get it to him? How are you going to find him?".

A slow smile spread across Jim's face, "Just you leave that to me".

•

Alfred paused next to the towering glass windows of Wayne Manor, staring out across the city. His lips turned down slightly, before he turned to the fireplace.

Bruce was furiously sewing black rubber into the inner elbows of his suit when his butler walked down he stone steps. Alfred didn't ask. "Master Wayne, I do believe you're needed in Gotham". Bruce didn't look up from his angry stabbing of the inside of his suit, "And how do you know that?". Alfred huffed, "Oh, trust me, they're calling".

Bruce pulled the thread tight and bit it off, tying a knot, then got to his feet. Alfred led him upstairs, and pulled back the curtain to reveal the Gotham skyline. Brazenly outlined by a white spotlight, was the 2D shape of a bat. Eyebrows shooting up, Bruce laughed, "I think you might just be right".


	8. Chapter 8

The first envelope came one week after Oswald Cobblepot had visited the Gotham Police Department. It was plainly mailed, with ordinary, black font across the front, directing itself to the Iceberg lounge. Still, despite its plain, understated writing, Oswald didn't like it. Especially considering it was addressed to 'Fish Mooney's Umbrella boy', and written plainly on the back, were the words, 'Information regarding The Joker'.

He'd had it x-rayed twice, and checked three times for traces of harmful substances before agreeing to open it. The letter was in the same plain font as the envelope, and there wasn't any nasty surprises in it either, just a few, oddly arranged numbers and signed with a name.

**'41.87339562491056, -87.62077331542969,15.07.22,22.47.08**

**Roth Jeke'**

Now, if Penguin hadn't sent out the bounty on information on this Joker, he would have burnt the damn thing before he gave it to the vigilante, but he really, really hated this clown. Oswald glanced down at the numbers for a moment, trying to tease out some sort of meaning from within the scattered figures, but there was nothing. It didn't make sense.

"Butch, take this directly to Detective Gordon and tell him it's about what we were discussing a week ago", Butch nodded, picked up the letter, and left. Oswald settled back in his chair, glaring darkly across the mahogany table in front of him. Something about this wasn't right.

There was a bounty placed on any information available, so to have someone take the time of writing this carefully conceived letter full of nonsense, signing it and sending it to the Penguin under his former name, a name Oswald had been sure to stamp out of everyone who'd known it, showed this Roth had information that was hard to come by, and therefore should be taken seriously. Just what else he knew was going to be Oswald's little task for the next few days.

•

Detective Gordon was equally as stumped. The letter he'd received from Cobblepot made no sense what so ever, and he was starting to wonder why the crime boss was so convinced it was legitimate when he noticed the envelope. Well, that would explain it.

Frowning, James sat back in his chair, eyes on the envelope. It had been clever, incredibly clever to send that to Penguin, whoever'd done it knew it would rile the man up enough to send it to Jim. That not only meant this Mr Jeke had somehow learnt of the conversation between Cobblepot and himself in the precinct a week previous, but had realised his best chance of ensuring this information landed on Gordon's desk and was taken seriously, was through the flustered criminal.

Despite this, the numbers made no sense to Gordon at all, and he had other leads he needed to follow up. After he'd put out the demand for witnesses to come forward, he'd been bombarded with calls and emails from people claiming to know the identity of the mysterious Joker, and trawling through all the crooks and cranks was more than enough for him to deal with. It was important though, too important to be ignored.

Gordon raised his eyes to the ceiling, then to the clock. It was 9pm, that should be late enough.

•

It was Detective Gordon on the roof of the precinct. Next to him, a huge spotlight was beaming up into the sky, splaying the figure of a bat against the dark clouds. Bruce liked it, it was menacing, and as much of a warning against crime as a way to call Batman. He leapt onto the roof, so quietly that Gordon didn't even realise he was there, "I take it this is your new way of contacting me", he said quietly from behind the older man.

Gordon turned around, one hand in his pocket, "So it _is_ you, people were speculating whether the new Batman was the old vigilante". Batman inclined his head, "Does it matter?". The detective jutted his chin out slightly, "Yes, there's been an APB placed on you, and if it wasn't you who saved all those people in the bank, I would have brought you in".

Bruce had to fight the urge to smile; good old Jim Gordon, moral through and through, "Why did you call me?". The older man pulled an envelope from his pocket, and handed it over, "Thus was sent to Oswald Cobblepot exactly one week after I met with him to discuss tactics on catching the Joker. He'd agreed to use his resources to help speed up the investigation, and almost immediately recieved this".

Batman glanced down at the address on the front, "I see. Clever. I'll take a look". He pocketed the letter and turned to leave, "If you receive anything else like this, I want to know".

James chuckled incredulously at his feet, "I shouldn't even be giving you that-", he looked up, and Batman was gone. He stood there disbelievingly for a few more moments, before walking over to the spotlight, turning it off, and walking back to the roof door. He had at least twelve 'witnesses' to interview before he was allowed home.

Jim sighed, it was going to be a long night.

•

The Bat-cave had gone from being Bruce Wayne's nightly residence, to his every waking hour residence, and Alfred didn't like it. The young master had spent almost a week in the moist, stuffy cavern, and would almost certainly get a cold if he didn't face daylight soon. It was the fault of some letter or another that he'd acquired from the police, something to do with the Joker, and Bruce was chest-deep in volumes like, 'Solving codes', and, 'The enigma machine'. In Alfred's opinion, it wasn't getting him anything except gaunt shadows under his eyes and a distinctly underfed look about him.

It got even worse when the next three letters arrived. Each a week apart, each handed to Batman by a flustered James Gordon, who was under steadily increasing pressure to catch the Joker. They were all coded in some sort of way, and all signed by the same name, Roth Jeke.

The second letter was perhaps even more bewildering than the first. It just read;

' **153  
Eight  
Hark! Joker! Save me, male!**

**Roth Jeke'**

Bruce hated to be clueless. There was every possibility that this was some sort of hoax who'd just happened to write the right thing on the envelope. He couldn't disregard it, though, because if these really were the clues to understanding the Joker, he should be putting ever single moment into cracking these codes.

The third letter read;

**'26.03.22,18.01.56**

**Roth Jeke'**

And the fourth,

**'23.08.16,41.87339562491056, -87.62077331542969,00.14.65**

**Roth Jeke'**

Batman was out nearly every night now, and despite there being a few nasty surprises left behind by the Joker at the scenes of his crimes, there was no sign of the man himself. Alfred could tell Bruce was getting more and more frustrated at being one step behind, and his frustration was being taken out on the less heinous, but still troublesome criminals of Gotham City.

If Alfred had thought the young master wasn't getting enough sleep three weeks ago, he certainly wasn't now. After his 'night shifts', Bruce would collapse into the desk chair and fall into a exhausted sort of REM sleep. He'd then wake up a couple of hours later, and pour himself into his work, trying to decode the letters. It was far less than healthy, but all of Alfred's attempts at focusing his master's attention elsewhere had been thwarted.

One, very normal night, amidst the endless cycle of Bruce waking, sitting slumped over the numbers, and going out to vent his frustration as Batman, Bruce came home early. Now, Alfred wouldn't have thought anything of it when Bruce was younger, but Batman didn't come home early.

"The letters, Alfred, Gordon was right! It's in the letters", Bruce mumbled as he pulled off his cowl and kicked the desk chair out of the way. He splayed another sheet of paper over the work he'd done so far, and Alfred wondered over to have a look. It was simply a sheet of slightly crease white paper, with the words 'RED RUM', spelt across it in red crayon. It wasn't signed, or appear to have any meaning to Bruce at all.

Alfred let out a snort of laugher, "Why are you playing around with children's puzzles, Bruce?". Bruce frowned at his friend, pausing in his mad flicking through one of the books, "What are you talking about, Alfred? This was left by the Joker in the wake of his last heist".

Alfred smiled uncertainly, "Red rum, it's a children's phrase", Alfred paused, realising Bruce really didn't know, "It's an anagram of the word murder".

Bruce's eyes widened, and he dropped the book on the floor with a heavy thump. "Hark! Joker! Save me, male!", he whispered, and made a mad grab for another sheet of paper on the desk, before sprinting over to one of the computers in the hub.

"How could I have been so stupid!", He growled, punching the letters on the keyboard, "I was looking at the numbers! The numbers! I didn't even pay attention to the-". The screen lit up, a match. There was a match on the phrase. Bruce stared incomprehensibly at the screen. That wasn't possible. It just wasn't.

The computer program had re-arranged the letters into the phrase, 'Arkham, Jerome Valeska'.

Bruce began to shake, blinking rapidly at the screens. There was some sort of mistake. How, how could this Roth Jeke have known about Jerome? How could the Joker have known about Roth Jeke and Jerome. He loaded up a new tab, and typed in 'Roth Jeke', to the anagram solver. Another match.

The Joker.

Bruce needed to sit down. He staggered back towards the desk, fumbling for the chair, and collapsing into it. Alfred followed, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder and swallowing, "Master Bruce, I believe we need to do a bit of research into your old friend".

153\. What could 153 and Eight have to do with Jerome Valeska and Arkham? And more importantly, how did the Joker know about this? Nobody knew about what happened to Jerome, not even Alfred. Bruce had made sure it didn't get public. Payed for a private trial and the very, very best lawyer through his own accounts, as a weak sort of apology for ruining Jerome's life.

He'd taken a step back then. Bruce hadn't even allowed himself the luxury of knowing where Jerome would end up, just that he wouldn't go to jail. All he'd asked of Milo Match was for Jerome not to be sent to jail.

153\. Eight. Arkham.

Pleading insanity. It was just the sort of thing Match would do, bribe a psychiatrist to give Jerome the diagnosis, then cart him off to a mental institution. It wasn't jail. Technically. And the nearest Mental Institution was-, "Arkham". Bruce breathed.

•

"Yes, Mr Wayne, it's simply wonderful you taking an interest in one of your companies subsidiary's", the receptionist babbled as she showed the Wayne Billionaire into the lift. What Bruce had seen so far at Arkham made him feel absolutely terrified. Every single patient he saw flooded him with fear, then relief and an odd sense of disappointment when he realised it wasn't Jerome.

They travelled down to the basement layer, and the receptionist turned, an inquisitive look across her face, "Why are you so interested in cell 153 anyway? A random high-security crazy, why that one?". Bruce shrugged lightly, "Oh, the ladies love it when you can tell stories about trying to help people. If it's a criminal, even better. Shows you're out to benefit society". Her eyes tightened, and she barked out an insincere laugh, turning her back to him and facing the doors.

Now Bruce just looked like the jackass who owned the place and therefore did whatever he wanted with it. It didn't matter that the receptionist thought he was a dick, it might even work in his favour. Better camouflage. The receptionist lead him down the blocky halls, past the moaning and occasional scream of the cells inhabitants, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building.

She finally came to a stop outside a cell, 153, "Here you go, hm, doesn't appear to be here right now. We'll just check where he's meant to be". Bruce stepped forwards, eyes searching out the information on the clipboard outside the cell. It was under Valeska, J. He swallowed and looked inside, it was plain, bare of everything except a bunk and a toilet. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and Bruce's eyebrows drew together.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been in here in years", he said quietly, and the receptionist blushed. "No, no, that can't be right. It says here he went for a therapy session with Dr Quinzel just this morning", she tittered, flusteredly flicking through the clipboard.

"Jerome? Jerome _hasn't_ been in here for years", a hoarse laugh echoed from the cell next to them. Bruce walked slowly over, looking carefully through the bars. An elderly man sat up on his bunk against the wall, coughing weakly. Bruce pushed his hands into his pockets, "How do you know?".

The old man wheezed another laugh, speaking in a thick Spanish accent, "Oh it was very hush hush, you wouldn't believe me if I told you". "Try me", Bruce growled.

Calculating eyes met Bruce's, "What will you give me?". The receptionist bundled over, "Mr Wayne, I'm afraid your not authorised to speak to anyone except patient 153!", Bruce shushed her, eyes still on the wizened criminal. "What do you want?". The man grinned, "Well well, why does Jerome matter to Mr Bruce Wayne so much? A nasty little sociopath like that?", Bruce clenched his fists and forced himself to stay where he was. These people were insane, clever or both, a deadly recipe when combined with too much information.

Bruce forced the tension in his shoulders to lessen, "Don't make me repeat myself". The old man looked at him for a moment, "I want a cell with a window, overlooking somewhere green", Bruce nodded, "Done. Now, tell me".

"Mr Wayne!", the receptionist gasped, "You can't-", "Rumour is, Jerome got out", the old man whispered, "You see, the little shit was lucky enough to have a bank account full of money, and good looks", he paused, "A little like you, actually". Bruce glared, "Get on with it".

"Well, his psychiatrist was Dr Quinzel, a pretty, innocent little thing that happened to be Dr Arkham's step daughter. People say Jerome charmed her into helping him get loose, and it was never reported, because Dr Arkham didn't want his precious little step daughter getting in trouble with the police". The receptionist stepped forward, "This man is criminally insane. He is lying to make you move him upstairs where he has a better chance of escape".

Bruce sent her a look of disgust, "How old do you think this man is? Ninety? Eighty five? He's dying, miss, let him die somewhere with fresh air". She simply gaped at him, and Bruce continued, softer this time, "Stage four lung cancer. Am I right?". The old man laughed, his mirth twisting itself into a coughing fit. When he'd recovered, he wiped a bloody hand over his mouth, "That you are, Mister Wayne. If you really want some free advice, it's this: stay away from Jerome Valeska. I've seen the fakers, I've seen the insane, but the ones like Valeska are the most dangerous. They're the ones where you can't tell. Jerome Valeska is a criminal genius; a comodín". Bruce swallowed, and the man turned away.

Bruce took a deep breath and turned away, walking back towards the lift. "Mr Wayne! Mr Wayne you can't believe that man", the receptionist said as she ran after him. Bruce gave her a strange look, "Course I didn't, I just have a lunch with a supermodel to get to".

•

Bruce stared at his Spanish dictionary. Comodín. It was Spanish for Wild Card.

_"This card is the most advantaged position in the game", Jerome said seriously, "You see, the Joker is allowed free access to the kings court, and who would suspect him of anything went wrong? He's just the clown, underestimated by everyone, but he is in the prime place to strike against the kingdom - if he so chooses", Jerome shrugged, then smirked, "If he's smart. There's a reason he's called the wildcard, you know"_

Jerome had said that. Jerome had said that the day Bruce had made him get beaten up. A Joker.

He looked over at the other letters. He'd been approaching it wrong. Maybe it wasn't a code. Maybe it was something else. They weren't grid references, Bruce had tried that already, but what if they were? What if they were grid references and something else?

Bruce ran the numbers again, separating the numbers and checking them against grid references. On the fifth run, the computer beeped cheerfully. A match. Bruce leant forwards, scanning the screen. They were grid references for Gotham, but then there were two other sets of three numbers hanging off the end. He stared at them for a moment, before it came to him. Dates. Dates and times.

Bruce's hands were a blur as they raced across the keyboard, events on the 15/07/22. A double murder. At Haley's Circus. Bruce felt light-headed as he read the article. The whole circus had been asleep, nobody even found out until the morning. Bruce had been off, had fled Gotham's streets by then, and afterwards, the circus had disbanded, too afraid with a killer on the loose. It said they never found who did it.

There was a picture, underneath a series of warnings saying that the photo below was not to be seen by anyone under the age of eighteen. Bruce scrolled down. It was of two men, one in his early fifties most likely, with his head bashed in, and the other only a few years older than Bruce himself, strangled to death. The caption below read, 'Owen Lloyd, 54, brutally murdered alongside his son, Dan Lloyd, 28'.

Dan Lloyd.

_"You're a cocky little shit, aren't you? Disrespecting me. Now you've made me angry", the leader, Dan, said calmly, "You couldn't leave now if you tried, rude brat"._

Dan had been the one who'd strangled Bruce that day at the circus. And Owen, Owen was the one who'd beaten Jerome up. Oh god. No one but Bruce would see any connection to this, so why would the Joker leave Batman the final clue, Red Rum?

Haley's circus.

Wild cards.

The Joker.

Jerome was the Joker, and he'd knowingly given Batman the final piece of evidence that only Bruce Wayne would be able to figure connected both cases.

That could only mean that the Joker knew Batman was Bruce Wayne.

Right from the start. Jerome had known it was him.

•

The phone rang.

Jerome had been expecting it to ring, to be honest. He'd been sitting in his chair for the last eight hours, barely moving. His clowns were probably waiting in the main room of the warehouse, near the money, or maybe they'd already made off with it, he didn't really care. It was almost time. Jerome'd been waiting for this for the last eight years.

He thought back over the last ten seconds, each one wondering if it would be the glorious moment of revelation when Bruce realised it was him. That it had always been him. It was euphoric. Better than any drug.

He caressed the receiver fondly, the moment he picked it up, he would get the news, the news he already knew. Grasping it firmly, Jerome brought it to his ear.

"Hello", he whispered, time dragging deliciously.

"Hey, it's me", a soft, feminine voice breathed down the phone, "He came, went down to your cell, and he knows". Jerome had never been particularly fond of Harleen Quinzel, even when she let him out, but she had done well, "Thank you darling, I'm very grateful".

Placing the phone back onto its stand, Jerome licked his lips. No more waiting. No more leaving before Batman arrived.

Now, he would finally, finally start the end of the perfect story.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a note in the Joker's pocket as he sped through Gotham City in a cop car. Tonight was the night. A maniacal grin was spread across his scars, and he was ready. In the sky ahead of him, glowing in the clouds, was the bat signal. The sirens were on full blast in his vehicle, and many more were chasing him. Oh he'd made sure the whole Police force knew who it was when he killed off the uniforms and stole the car; their little cop radios were incredibly useful.

Tonight, he was tackling the worst of the worst. Firstly, he was going straight to the Gotham Precinct, armed with five men with machine guns, and him, the wild card. That would be more than enough. It was even better that the rest of the force were following him like rats after the pied piper, it would make everything perfectly in place for the last bang. Bats would be on his way, but if the Joker had timed it correctly, he'd have about five minutes alone with Gotham's finest to spread a message, before he needed to set off on his solo mission.

The paper crinkled from within Jerome's pocket as he leaned out the window, swerving the car from side to side. He stopped laughing with a grumpy curse when they opened fire, that just wouldn't do. He had a job to do now, those faceless cards could do nothing to interfere, not tonight. Tonight was _theirs._

The look of sheer surprise on the faces of the police force when the Joker burst through he precinct doors, guns blazing, was perfect.

"Hello Gotham PD!", God, they thought they'd lucked out, "a little birdie told me that you guys were asking around for me! So I thought to myself, 'Why, I can't be rude, I'd better go see what the problem is!'. So, here. I. Am.", the Joker took a dramatic bow, smirking deviously. During his speech, the police in the cars that had been following Had burst through the doors after them.

Detective Gordon stepped forward, "Guess you really are crazy. You do realise this is the Gotham Police Department, right? There's a least fifty officers in here right now, and you dragged even more along with you. We've all been told to shoot you on sight".

The Joker tapped the barrel of his gun against his chin thoughtfully, "Hm. Now, that could have been an issue! If half the cops on Gotham's police force weren't susceptible to, uh, incentives, that is". Almost instantaneously, all the cops in the room pulled their weapons, but none were pointed at the Joker.

Detective Gordon swallowed, "Ramirez", the female cop grit her teeth and levelled the gun at his skull, "Ramirez, what are you doing?".

Ramirez hardened her gaze,  
"Sorry Jim, he's got my mother", she whispered, and pulled the trigger. James leapt to the side as gunfire erupted all around him. He managed to crawl under one of the desks, levelling his gun towards the Joker, who was laughing in the middle of the mess. His finger teased along the trigger for too long, the man caught sight of Gordon, sent him a grin, and leapt off the table into the fray.

Gordon cursed, and scrambled out just in time to get bowled over by a brawling Harvey Bullock. They hit the floor with a noise like a cushion being dropped, and Bullock lifted his head to see Jim, "Eyy! Jimmy! Good to see you on the side of the righteous!". Gordon coughed, shoving his partner off him, "Yeah, sure. They didn't even try. What about you?". Harvey barked a laugh, "What did the Clown have to use against me? He tried money, which I'm sure is what got half these bastards, but me? All I need is cheap whiskey, and the cost of that's in its name", he winked sardonically, "So, go team morality!".

Jim crawled back under the desk he'd been under earlier, and Harvey followed. "So, what do you propose we do?", Harvey muttered, ducking as a handful of bullets skidded into the wood above their heads. Jim's eyes locked on the balcony where Captain Essen usually spent her time, when it wasn't her day off, anyway, "Up there. If I can get up there I can try and talk them down. The Joker's gone now, he disappeared up the fire escape, so it's most likely that this is a distraction, something to stop us seeing the bigger picture". Bullock nodded, "Makes sense. So you want an opening then, I'm guessing", he muttered, and cocked his gun with a grin, "If I die, I'll come back and haunt your skinny arse", Harvey winked, and rolled out of cover, leaping onto the last machine-gunned clown left, that was standing between Jim and the staircase with a yell.

"Harvey!", Jim hissed, but the idiot had provided an opening, and Gordon couldn't waste it. With an angry growl, he leapt out of his hiding place and towards the stairs. Taking them two at a time, Gordon pulled himself up with the banister. Panting at the top, James Gordon surveyed the crowd.

It was pure anarchy.

All the clowns had been taken down by the still-good cops, but the dirty ones were still trying to duke it out.

"HEY!", Jim roared. A few officers turned to look at him, but most continued to fight. Detective Gordon took a deep breath, "I said, HEY! LISTEN TO ME, YOU FOOLS!". Most people stopped this time, only one or two continuing to try and fight, Bullock raised his pistol and fired, hitting the still brawling Wuertz in the leg. Everyone stopped then, turning to face Jim, panting and clutching at their wounds.

"WHAT ARE YOU **DOING**? We are the **POLICE**! We are meant to keep **ORDER**! But here we are, shooting at each other over a few stolen wads of cash stuffed in our greedy fists!", He sucked in a breath, face red, "We should be out there! Catching the criminal that's turning out streets to rubble and killing for his own enjoyment!". Everyone was silent, until Ramirez yelled up from under a bleeding nose, "He's got my MOTHER!", and a few others murmured angrily in agreement.

Jim held up a hand, "I understand, truly I do. But what's going to happen after this? You think the Jokers just going to hand her back with a nice, 'Thanks for the loan'? Of course not! Our best, no, our _only_ option here is to catch the bastard _tonight_ ". Ramirez dropped her head, looking ashamed. Detective Gordon grabbed the railings, "In the case of Captain Essen and Commissioner Lobe's absence, I am taking charge. Any objections?". There wasn't a sound from the floor, "Good. Okay, we need to act quickly if we are gonna catch the Joker. Bullock, you are going to take a quarter of the force in the cars outside, keeping your radios on, and I want you to go downtown. There's just been a call that the cinema on third street has exploded, and it has Joker written all over it".

Harvey nodded, "That's one of Maroni's joints, right?", Jim returned the gesture, "Yeah, get down there fast, we need to maintain order". Detective Bullock rounded up a quarter of the remaining cops, and left.

Turning to the ragged remains of Gotham's police force, James Gordon assessed what he'd been left with. "For some reason, so far, the Joker has only targeted organisations that are corrupt or owned by the Mob. The only places he hasn't hit so far are the Iceberg Lounge", he took a breath, "And city hall".

There was a utterance of disagreement at that, and Jim took in a breath, "We all know the politicians are under the thumb of the mob, and the Joker's set up so many issues around Gotham tonight that it's got to be some sort of distraction to split our numbers". He swallowed, staring dutifully around what remained of his colleagues, "We're going to have to split into units that have never worked together before, and thrive. I'm relying on you all to help. And for tonight, the Batman is no longer classed as 'shoot on sight', he is our only ally".

•

"Tch, tch, tch. Commissioner Loeb. I've been told that you've been very, very naughty this year!", The Joker teased as he dangled the helpless commissioner off the side of the Wayne Enterprises roof.

"P-please!", the commissioner stuttered, eyes bulging fearfully, "Please! I'll do anything you want! Just, just don't let me die!". The Joker let go of one side of Loeb's lapel, bringing his hand to rub along his painted lip thoughtfully, "Hmm, now, I really would listen to you, you know, having a favour from the commissioner in the bank is not something to take lightly! But you see, tonight is special, and I need it to be remembered, and you really are a rotten apple".

Jerome stared out over the fire-lit streets of Gotham. There were fires raging all across town; a cinema down on fourth street owned by Maroni, a couple of restaurants owned by the Penguin uptown and City hall. The police, annoyingly, had recovered under the meddling hands of Detective Gordon, but were spread thinly across the city, barely containing the chaos.

It was pretty much perfect. The perfect crescendo to the tale he'd spun for Bruce's amusement. After tonight, Batman would be secured as Gotham's masked hero, a vigilante worthy of inspiring people, and Jerome would have cured Bruce of his one flaw. He looked up at the sky above them, a little proud of his bat-trap. There, circling the sky in red, was a spotlight incredibly similar to the one on the top of Gotham PD (perhaps because it was the one off Gotham PD), but it had been edited a little.

The bat had been flipped round, so it was upside down, and the Joker had added a two spots below each wing, creating a nice little smirky face. If Brucey didn't get the message, Jerome would be a tad disappointed in him, especially considering the sizeable selection of cop cars that had gathered at the bottom of the Wayne tower. They wouldn't get in, they wouldn't even try, considering the clowns waving bomb detonators from behind the glass on the ground floor. And because spray painted across the double doors in red were the words, 'BATMAN ONLY. ANYONE ELSE TRIES TO ENTER, THE BUILDING WILL EXPLODE. THE POLICE COMMISSIONER WILL EXPLODE WITH IT'. Jerome hoped he'd made himself clear enough.

A helicopter turned up, carefully circling the Wayne tower, it's rotating blades whipping up a little storm around the Joker and commissioner. Jerome smiled nostalgically, that was a nice touch, unexpected, but nice. The police were calling something out to him from the speakers on the helicopter, but the Joker wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on a rapidly approaching shape on the streets below.

It was a motorbike, a black motorbike with a black rider. The Joker turned his attention back to Commissioner Loeb, who was still dangling over the edge of the building by his lapels, "Bats!", he exclaimed happily at the snivelling man, and let go. The police commissioner dropped like a stone.

There was a short panic from the street below as officers raced towards where he was going to land, but there wasn't anything they could do. It was mere moments before Loeb hit the Tarmac, and he did so with a wet, resounding crack. The Joker greedily searched the streets for the motorbike, eyes desperately seeking out the caped shape that should be raging towards him. Where was he.

For a cold moment, Jerome thought Bruce wasn't coming. Had gone past, towards one of the fires uptown perhaps, ignoring the Joker completely, but then Batman appeared across the building.

They just stood there for a few moments, taking each other in. Jerome smiled blissfully, spreading his arms, "What are you waiting for?", and Bruce was upon him, snarling ferociously. Jerome found himself on his back, his head dangling off the edge of the building. Yes.

"It really took you a while, didn't it?", the Joker laughed, "To realise it was me. Oh, I bet you were so shocked". Bruce bared his teeth, "Jerome", the word was ripped from him with such anguish that the Joker almost dropped his carefully rehearsed routine. Where was the angry confrontation he'd been expecting? Where were the death threats and hatred?

Oh god. It looked like Bruce was about to pull him back up. No, no, he needed it to end here. Everything he'd planned ended here. Jerome's mind whirled as he tried to come up with aggravating comments, "Did you solve all my little riddles? Or just enough? Just enough to realise it was me?", Bruce said nothing, just narrowed his confused eyes, Jerome continued to ramble, "Oh you didn't! Did you! Which one was it you didn't get? Was it the murder of Dan and Owen? No, no, you got that one, and you had to have got the Arkham one, so it must be the date of my mother's death, and the date of the assassination of the man who killed your parents".

Bruce shook his head, "What are you talking about". Jerome grinned widely, and he noticed Batsy's eyes lingering on his scarred mouth. Jerome didn't like that, for some reason. He didn't want Bruce to look at the scars, "Well! I had to pay you back somehow for paying for my trial". Bruce snarled angrily, and slammed Jerome's back into the ledge as the clown continued to babble, "And it took you so long to figure it out! Really! I thought you would remember just from the masks alone, and the name, Joker, come on! I had to bribe old man Paulo in the cell next to mine to spell it out for you!".

Bruce was shaking, and for the first time that night, Jerome felt a tiny sliver of doubt worm its way into his gut. Perhaps they could- No! He needed to do this! This was for Bruce, he couldn't afford to be selfish now! For the first time, Bruce managed to force out a sentence, "Why. Why would you do all this?".

Jerome winced, he needed to keep in control, couldn't think too deeply at that. He wasn't hurting Bruce, he was helping him. Jerome didn't want to look too deeply at why he was doing this, it was an obsession, yes, it had started off as that. But slowly, it had grown into something else, something absolutely terrifying. But that didn't matter. His thoughts didn't matter. Why would Bruce give two shits about him anyway? He hadn't seen Jerome in eight years.

Jerome realised he needed to speed things up. The Joker pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards the messy stain on the Tarmac, "Did you see me kill Commissioner Loeb? I'm pretty sure I just-ACK". Bruce was holding him by the collar of his heavy woollen coat over the edge of the building. Yes. Yes!

Jerome grinned and wriggled desperately as he was held over the edge. Just a small loosening of Bruce's hands and he would have won. Bruce was breathing heavily, his eyes wide and flayed open, "Jerome! Tell me the truth! Why are you doing this?".

It was at that exact moment that Jerome realised the fatal flaw in his plan.

Bruce wouldn't do it. Jerome'd thought that if he did enough killing, drove Bruce into the choice of either killing him and removing the problem and saving him, Bruce would have been forced to go through with killing him.

But he wasn't going to do it.

Even through the anger and confusion swimming in Batman's eyes, Jerome could see he wasn't going to do it. He still thought he could save Jerome.

" **Tell me!** ", Bruce yelled.

Jerome stopped smiling. Looking straight at Bruce softly, Jerome knew what he was going to have to do. But he couldn't resist it, just once. He wouldn't do anything to hurt the story, but the desperate longing was rearing its unwanted head inside his belly, and Jerome's breath stuttered along with his resolve. One last clue, then, one last clue that Bruce wouldn't be able to unravel until they found that note in his pocket.

" **Evol** ", Jerome ground out, smiling almost sadly at the man in front of him. Jerome couldn't lie, not now, one last confession. He stared for a moment, trying to soak in as much about Bruce as he possibly could, before lifting his arms, and sliding out of his coat.

The Wayne Enterprises building rushed past in a pretty blur of colour, and the wind whipped through Jerome's hair as he fell. He wasn't looking down towards the black streets waiting for him, he was looking up, at the shocked figure standing on the roof above him. Jerome had won.

He closed his eyes, a sad resignation finding hold in his bones.

This was it.

There was a sudden impact, then nothing.

•

The moment when Jerome shrugged out of his coat was the single, worst moment of Bruce's life. Worse than loosing Jerome the first time, worse than loosing his parents, all because he'd finally gotten him back. Jerome was in his hands, everything the man had done forgotten, all cutting wit and dazzling green eyes, then he simply, wasn't. He was hurtling down, down towards the unforgiving pavement and the police. Down away from Bruce.

In that moment, Bruce didn't think of all the people the Joker had killed, he didn't think of the buildings he'd burnt or the suffering he'd put Bruce through. He just thought of his friend. He thought of the stump they'd spent many an evening on, perfectly imperfect as they faced away from the sunsets. He thought of the unquestioning, unjudging friendship Jerome had placed in him, and he thought of the last time he'd seen Jerome at night, in his bedroom, when the older boy had confessed everything to him. Even what he hadn't meant to say.

The man hurtling at breakneck speeds away from him was the only person in Bruce's whole life who could do everything Jerome had done, and still make Bruce care. It was that thought which made Bruce dive headfirst off the building after him.

The only reason Bruce caught up with Jerome's decent was because the man was spread-eagled when he fell, and Batman was more aerodynamic when falling headfirst. He bundled the criminal up in his arms, and pressed the button to spread his cape. They could still get out of here, Bruce would fly them away, away from this mess and everything would sort itself out. The left side of batman's cape spread, slowing their free fall slightly, turning it into a maple-seed decent.

The other side of Batman's Cape wasn't opening.

At this rate, they were still going to slam into the ground right in the middle of the police. Bruce needed to get Jerome out of there. The police would kill him.

At the last second, Bruce flipped himself onto his back in a weak attempt to shelter Jerome from the impact, unable to tell where they would land due to the sickly spinning.

They hit the ground.

The buckling of metal and bursting of glass punctuated the rough end to their fall. And Bruce vaguely registered that it hadn't been Tarmac they'd crashed into, but a cop car, and that he'd really hit his head. Jerome rolled out of his arms at Bruce's momentary loss of muscle function, and Bruce lay, stunned, on top of the car. Voices. There were shouting voices around him.

He needed to do something.

Something really important, he'd been in the middle of something. No, someone.

Jerome.

Jerome wasn't in his arms. Bruce heaved himself up into a sitting position in time to catch sight of Detective Gordon across the street. The man was shouting something, but it all blurred into the same noise in Bruce's head. And pointing a gun.

Gordon was pointing a gun towards Bruce. No, not towards Bruce, just below him. He looked down in time to see a pair of panicky green irises flicking between Gordon and himself, and Bruce smiled. Jerome was there, he was okay. Jerome was alive and shouting something at him. Shouting something.

A gunshot rung out, purging the noise in Bruce's head, and Jerome jolted. Confusion filled the Joker's eyes as he looked down to see the blossoming red stain in his chest. He looked up slowly, meeting Bruce's eyes in something akin to apology, before collapsing.

Everything sped up.

Bruce let out a roar of anger, dropping down over Jerome as further gunshots punctuated the space around them. He pulled Jerome into his arms and started to run. The police were shouting behind him, but there were no more shots fired. James Gordon was yelling something after them, but Bruce didn't care. He needed to get Jerome back to the cave. He needed to fix the hole in his chest.

"It's okay", Bruce heard himself muttering, "Everything's going to be okay".

They were on the motorbike now, roaring down the streets away from Wayne Enterprises, towards the bat cave. Alfred wouldn't know what to think. Bruce didn't quite know what he was doing, to be honest. Jerome's head was resting against Bruce's shoulder, and instead of feeling scared and intimidated, a soft, completing warmth pulled itself through him.

It was a warmth he hadn't felt since he last saw Jerome in the park eight summers ago. Bruce sped up, dragging himself from that haze. He'd got Jerome back, but unless he acted fast, their reunification would be short-lived.

•

When Jerome came to, he knew something was wrong.

To be honest, the thing was, he hadn't actually expected to come to in the first place. He'd expected to be a red splatter on the pavement next to commissioner Lobe, the last part of a vigilante's origin story neatly tied up in a bow.

This was anything but neat, in fact, it felt positively messy. There was a dull sort of ache in Jerome's chest, near his right shoulder, and the skin on his left arm and leg felt abrasive somehow, like scraped flesh. Maybe he was just dead, and this was what the afterlife looked like. Jerome's eyelids fluttered, and soft, yellow light filtered in slightly. There were stone walls above him, which would certainly fit in with the stereotypes of hell, but Jerome was sure no version of the bible had ever advertised hell as being so very comfortable.

And nowhere had they mentioned a very angry looking Batman prowling the floor around him.

Jerome pondered over pretending to be asleep for a while longer to prepare a strategy, but it was too late. "I know you're awake Jerome", Bruce stated darkly, and Jerome let his eyes slide open. He was right, the ceiling was rock, as were the walls and floor. Underground then. Wires ran across the bare walls, all congregating at a cluster of computer screens to their left.

Jerome pulled himself up to sitting, the twinge in his shoulder complaining painfully, and he turned to face the still-costumed Bruce with guarded eyes. He felt too exposed without a plan, he was cornered, and he had failed, but the worst thing was that Jerome didn't understand.

They just existed for a while, watching the other warily, unsure of what to do now there was no hostages or explosions or guns separating them. Jerome broke it.

"Why didn't you just let me die?", he asked harshly, "You leapt off a building after me, which I guess was because I engineered my falling to be almost your fault, but the shooting? That wasn't you. Wouldn't have been your fault. I would have bled out pretty quickly". Jerome realised too late he'd said the wrong thing. Batman stopped dead in his tracks, pure fury swirling in his pupils, "You thought I'd just let you die? That I'd let you fall or bleed out from a bullet wound, Jerome?".

The Joker licked his lips, eyes darting off to the side then back to the livid man in front of him, "Well, yeah". Jerome watched as Bruce appeared to go through some sort of inner turmoil, the tendons in his neck stretching out deliciously. His loins throbbed almost painfully.

Bruce clenched his fists, "I wouldn't- You-", Jerome raised an eyebrow. Bruce, speechless? The man wasn't exactly vocal, but he had always been full of blunt surety. This was new, and interesting. Bruce didn't know what to do. He was torn between doing the right thing, and the fact that it was Jerome. That was unexpected. Perhaps, perhaps Bruce had missed Jerome back a little bit, just enough.

It was an odd feeling. The idea of being cared for, Jerome hadn't really ever experienced it. The electric feeling in his belly started to spread warmth through the rest of him. The scary warmth that he didn't want to think about, but it wouldn't go away. Bruce cared about him. Jerome vaguely registered that Bruce was looking at his face, specifically his scars.

Now, Jerome had never felt too self-conscious about his scars. But he knew they weren't pretty, rather hideous in fact, and Jerome felt stupid. Sure, Bruce could care about him a little, a small ember of a childhood friendship, but the blind warmth that flooded his chest, and the deep-seated aching in Jerome's crotch? That wasn't just caring. How could Bruce return such things when Jerome was so imperfect? "What?", Jerome barked, "Never seen a Glasgow grin before?".

Bruce blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in the Joker's demeanour, "What happened?". Jerome raised his eyebrows, "Oh, long story. You don't want the gory details, you already know half the story anyway. Wasn't me, if that's what your wondering". Jerome ran the pad of a thumb across the jagged line, deep in thought.

"It's not like you have anywhere you need to be", Bruce said coldly, and Jerome caught his eye. "Fine", he bit out, "The night I got out, I went to your house". The corners of Bruce's mouth turned down, and Jerome's eyebrows drew together, "I won't tell you until you take it off. The mask, I don't like it. Take it off". Bruce hesitated, and Jerome rolled his eyes, "Jeez, it's not like I don't know who you are, Brucie. Just take it off".

The clown watched as Batman grasped the bottom of the mask, and pulled it off in one smooth motion. God. Bruce was beautiful. Even with the black circles of makeup surrounding his eyes, their intelligence and determination, along with that spark that was just pure _Bruce_ stared back at him. A slender, straight nose lead up to dark, sweeping eyebrows, and messy, unruly hair framed the whole piece. Jerome felt sad, in a selfish way, because Bruce was too perfect to ever look at the scarred monstrosity in front of him.

No flaws. No great, curving scars marring his appearance, not even a pimple. Jerome didn't stand a chance. He forced himself to continue the story, "I went straight to your house. But you weren't there, I'd missed you by three weeks. So, I decided I'd have to, uh, procrastinate whilst I waited for you to come back". Bruce frowned, "How did you know I was coming back?".

Jerome smiled patronisingly, "Brucie. Of course you were coming back. You hadn't fulfilled your dream, clean streets, remember?". Bruce worried the inside of his cheek, eyebrows drawn together slightly, and Jerome continued, "So I made my way to Haley's Circus. You see, I'd spent eight years in a cell thinking, and when you give someone that long to scheme, they come up with some pretty good plans. I'd got this perfect one for Dan Lloyd, it was brilliant, I was", Jerome licked his lips, "I was going to go in there when he was asleep, quietly, scare him, then I was going to slowly strangle the life out of him like he had tried to do to you. See how he liked it as he went purple". Bruce said nothing, his expression giving nothing away.

"So, I creep up, in the middle of the night, to his caravan. I'm not armed, you don't need to be for strangulation, but I was giddy from my recent escape. Cocky", Jerome spat out coldly, "Assuming. It wasn't Dan Lloyd in his caravan. It was Owen. I froze up. Hadn't planned it through properly".

"Owen knew where I'd been the last eight years, even if the trial had been kept under wraps, they'd called witnesses, and Owen was one of them".

"He'd always been strong, part of being a circus performer, but he was getting old. I should have remembered I was stronger, you know, but I. Just. Froze", Jerome spat out the words like poison.

"He, uh", the clown sighed, "He grabbed me, whacking my head against the walls like old times, and the whole time he was crying. Not the quiet, manly tears you see people cry in public, no, these were the disgusting, messy tears that run down red faces. I was dazed, unfocused because of the head injuries. Owen had always been the sort of man who liked to hurt people. He liked to see blood and spit and tears, and he was still sore about Lila's death".

Jerome looked up, dark eyes meeting Bruce's, "You know what I did, right? When I killed her. You know what I did to her face?". Bruce swallowed, shaking his head, and Jerome hollowed his cheeks, "I did this, to her", he turned his head so Bruce could get a good look.

Jerome tilted his head, looking up, "Well, I had been high- But anyway, I was dazed, angry. Goaded him. Told Owen I did that to her face for him. You see, when he was beating me up, I would smile, just to piss him off, and he'd hit me until he'd beat it off my face. Then he'd just keep saying the same thing over and over and over".

"Why. So. Serious?".

"After I told him. He lost it. Pulling a kitchen knife on me, he snarled something along the lines of, "See how you like it", pried open my jaw, and did this".

Bruce said nothing. Eyes dull as they lingered on Jerome's scars, "The pain sort of brought me back. I realised what was happening. That this was a weak, pathetic old man, and that was when I pulled the knife from his hands, whacked his head against the walls a few times, and gutted him like a fish". Jerome didn't stop, "And I'm not sorry I did. I then went to find Dan. It wasn't that hard, he was only in the caravan over, and I squeezed the life out of him, until he was a nice. Shade. Of. Purple".

Jerome leant back, cold, self-satisfied resignation in his gaze, "There. Bet you wished you'd let me fall now". Bruce's eyes didn't move from Jerome's cheeks, "I'm so sorry", he whispered.

Jerome's eyebrows twitched closer together, in irritation, "Why are you so bothered! Why do you give a shit? It's not your fault that you can't even look at my eyes anymore". Bruce's pupils shot up to meet Jerome's, "You think you disgust me", he stated softly. The Joker didn't want to be sitting down anymore, he felt closed in. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stalked towards the chair.

Jerome opened his mouth widely as he neared Bruce, showing off the rough insides of his cheeks as well, "Well, I'm not gonna win any sort of beauty pageant".

Brow's drawing together, Bruce leaned forwards, "You think the scars make you ugly, don't you?". Jerome stopped inches away from the chair, and leaned in towards him, eyes burning threateningly, "It's not like you're gonna want to kiss me, though, is it?".

The air suddenly felt thick. Jerome had crowded them in, and Bruce was glaring right back. Two wild animals, circling each other.

Without thinking, Jerome jerked forwards, and pressed his scarred mouth forcefully against Bruce's. Bruce stopped breathing, his eyes wide and inches away from Jerome's as the older man licked into his mouth.

Jerome wasn't sure what he was doing. He'd kissed Bruce to prove a point, expecting the man to recoil in disgust, but he hadn't. Bruce had just stayed there, unmoving, eyes glazed over as Jerome plundered his mouth. Something broke inside him. Somehow, this was so much better than the expected response. Jerome let out a wounded sound, curling his hands into Batman's suit collar, and dragged Bruce to his feet. At the same time, he pressed further into the wet heat, their teeth clacking as Jerome tried to get deeper.

The Joker walked them backwards, until his lower back hit the bed, then he flipped them over, wedging a knee between Bruce's thighs as he kissed him.

Bruce still hadn't thrown him off. He was just leaning against the bed, limp and passive beneath Jerome. Jerome didn't want that. He wanted Bruce to fight back. He wanted it desperately.

The Joker bit Bruce's tongue, hard, watching calculatingly as the man's eyes narrowed slightly at the pain, and Bruce's tongue began to move. It was slow at first, unsure, but Jerome coaxed it into his mouth, and Bruce began to gain confidence as their tongues slid over each other. Jerome moaned roughly as Bruce licked a long stripe along his lower lip, and broke away, panting.

Bruce said nothing, just took in fast, short breaths with wide eyes, and Jerome liked that. He liked the debauched way his red lipstick had smeared across Bruce's mouth and cheeks, and with the black circles around his eyes, Bruce looked like a parody of the Joker. God. Jerome's trousers were so tight. So painfully tight, and the warmth that he'd shoved right to the very pit of his soul was pulling him down with it.

Jerome climbed up over him, straddling Bruce's chest and forcing Bruce to arch his back down into the bed, before grabbing two handfuls of the younger man's costume, and dragging him further up onto the mattress. Jerome leant down slower this time, so his open mouth was hovering just above Bruce's parted lips, watching his eyes.

He was giving time for Bruce to say no. To turn his head, show Jerome he didn't want this, but he just lay there, letting their breath mix beneath hooded eyelids. Jerome couldn't wait any longer. He closed the distance again, shutting his eyes and sinking into the delicious, slick wetness once again. The Joker squirmed down, lifting Bruce's left thigh, then his right, and settling in the gap left behind.

Jerome let his hands wander down the firm body beneath him, feeling Bruce shiver as he brushed fingertips across his hard stomach, and drinking in the way the younger man arched up into him when Jerome's hands stroked down his ribs. Jerome ground his hips down into Bruce's, and broke the kiss with a groan when he was met with equal hardness. He wanted to pull noises from that perfect mouth, Jerome needed to hear Bruce moan.

A hand slid down Bruce's stomach, gripping his covered hardness firmly, and ripped a choked moan from Bruce's throat. The noise went straight to Jerome's cock, which was already rock hard and leaking in his trousers. Jerome rubbed up and down the bulge in Bruce's suit, drinking in the stuttered breathing and soft, held-back noises his hands coaxed from the pliant body beneath him. Jerome's other hand came down to run across Bruce's balls, and the younger man sat up on his elbows, face screwed up in pleasure, as he squinted through dazed eyelids down at Jerome's hands.

Jerome didn't even need to touch himself, he was so close, and there was more than enough visual stimulus. He just needed Bruce to go first.

Oh god, the noises Bruce was making were speeding up, getting closer together, and Bruce's arms gave way, forcing the younger man down onto his back. Jerome couldn't help himself, he removed his hands and pressed their hips flush together, grinding and thrusting against the body beneath him quickly. They both moaned in unison.

He wasn't going to last long, not like this. Bruce was close too though, if the pressure being returned as the younger man ground his hips back to meet Jerome was anything to go by. Jerome sped up, the force of his thrusts rocking the bed in time with Bruce's grunts.

Crashing their lips together, Jerome's stomach flipped as Bruce let out a long keening noise into Jerome's mouth and shuddered against him as he came. Oh Jesus, that was too much, Jerome was coming.

He blacked out with the pleasure, eyes writhing in his skull as he shook above Bruce. Their mouths slid apart, and Jerome buried his face into Bruce's sweat-sticky neck. They were both panting as they came down, and Jerome slowly let Bruce's legs drop as he rearranged himself to lie haphazardly across the man beneath him.

The cum was quickly cooling in his pants, and Jerome could see the wet patch in Bruce's black suit spreading across his crotch.

That had been thoroughly unexpected.

Jerome wasn't quite sure what to do, or say. He'd just forced himself upon the richest billionaire in half the country, who also happened to fight crime as a vigilante at night, and be the one person in the entire universe Jerome had ever loved.

Jerome was a mass-murdering lunatic that probably had about two cents to his name now his clowns thought he was dead. He lifted his head, intent on delivering some sort of witty, unserious line to excuse his behaviour, but was met with the slack-jawed, slightly huffing, fast asleep Bruce Wayne.

Well, that solved that problem then. Now, if he could only remove the iron-tight arms around his waist without waking Bruce, he could sneak out of there without having to talk about any of it.

Ten minutes later, Jerome decided that was much easier said than done.


	10. Chapter 10

Bruce knew Jerome had left before he opened his eyes.

It wasn't just the distinct emptiness in his arms, or that the room only held the sounds of one set of lungs, it was just the fact that the spark of life that seemed to follow Jerome around, and the warmth Bruce bathed in when in his presence, was gone.

Bruce slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position, his pants were crisping uncomfortably around his genitals, and he was pretty sure his lips were bruised. He sat there for a moment, trying not to think of the connotations behind Jerome's departure.

Bruce felt like an idiot. What had he thought was going to happen? That Jerome would still be there when he woke up, that they'd go upstairs and have breakfast? Exchange phone numbers? The man was the most wanted criminal in Gotham city! Well, what was left of it.

Swinging his legs off the bed, Bruce got up and walked towards the stone staircase. climbed to the top, and out of the fireplace, but as he turned with the remote to close the entrance, Bruce caught sight of his face in the mirror above the hearth.

Smeared across his cheeks and up his face was red greasepaint, in a poor mockery of a smile. Bruce's hand darted up to frantically rub a hand over his cheeks. The makeup just smeared further, and it along with his black eyes, was a painful reminder of what he'd done.

Stumbling up the stairs to his bathroom, Bruce silently thanked anyone who was listening that Alfred didn't appear to be in that wing of the house. Hands shaking, he turned on the taps, and splashed too-hot water across his face. After frenetically lathering soap over his face, and scrubbing the smeared paint from his skin, Bruce met the eyes of his reflection.

He should feel disgusted with himself, he should feel angry and violated, but he didn't. He was terrified because he wasn't. There was no disgust or repulsion, not once throughout the experience did Bruce want him to stop. That was what scared him.

It didn't matter though. None of it mattered, because Jerome hadn't done it out of any desire towards Bruce, it had all been a game to Jerome, the Joker, whatever. Bruce hadn't even resisted, he'd just melted into Jerome's hands.

His hands gripped onto the sink as his cheeks coloured in embarrassment. His masochistic brain conjured up the moments just before Jerome had plunged over the edge of the Wayne Enterprises building, when the look he'd given Batman was the most Jerome-like one he'd seen on the man for eight years.

Bruce towelled himself off and walked back down towards the Batcave. He stopped halfway between the bottom of the stairs and the bed, eyebrows drawn close as he registered the carefully folded up piece of paper lying randomly next to the bed. It hadn't been there last night when he'd carefully brought Jerome back to the batcave. Alfred didn't tolerate mess anywhere, he just couldn't help it, and would pick up anything lying around, so it couldn't have been him.

Bruce crouched down, bobbing slightly with the momentum, and picked up the folded paper. It was a letter, he realised, and the paper rustled as he straightened out the crinkles. Addressed simply to B, it read:

\-------------------------------------------

B.

Right now I am a splatter on the pavement next to Lobe, the final part of your rebirth. I told you I'd make you break it, and I know you're stronger without it. Yet, selfishly, I couldn't leave without answering your question:

C8H11NO2 + C10H12N2O + C43H66N12012S2

Part of me hopes they won't publish this when they find it on my body, that you'll never read it, but the other part, the bigger part, is selfish. I want you to know, perhaps almost vindictively, the real reason.

Live well,

J.

\-------------------------------------------

Bruce stared. The words burning themselves into his retinas.

This was a suicide note.

Jerome, the Joker had planned the whole, goddamn thing last night, every last detail right down to his swan dive. He couldn't help it, could he? The bastard'd had to go and decide that Bruce needed Jerome's martyrdom to establish himself as protector of the city. Jerome had decided to force Bruce to break his rule, that he was somehow helping Bruce by forcing him to kill Jerome.

The bastard. Bruce read over the combination of numbers and letters, recognising them all as chemical formulas for organic molecules. He stalked over to his computer, punching the combinations into Google. A helpful Wikipedia article cropped up first, and Bruce clicked.

He knew Jerome hadn't intended to leave this. It was too sloppy for the Joker to leave a loose end like this lying around, so that meant this might be Bruce's last chance to see inside the twisted mind of his childhood friend.

The article loaded, declaring the molecular formulas to be the base structures of three different molecules, all found in the human brain. Dopamine, Serotonin and Oxytocin. The next paragraph then went on to explain that they were the chemicals in the human brain that caused the feeling known as love.

Unable to stop reading, Bruce continued. The line after stated that all three chemicals could be manufactured in a lab, and that an overdose of any of the three could cause schizophrenia, extreme paranoia and insanity.

Jerome hadn't meant for him to find this letter whilst he was still breathing.

Bruce needed to find Jerome. He needed to find him right this minute, before the asshole did anything stupider than usual.

•

As predicted, the money was gone. Jerome barely spared the empty floor a glance though, as he walked through the warehouse to the office, and collapsed into the chair. It was almost ludicrous to think that barely two nights ago, he'd been sitting in this chair, glowing with confidence about his plans. So pleased with his silly little ideas, and over-estimating his self importance.

He'd screwed everything up so, so badly. Now Bruce wouldn't get his perfect story, and Jerome wouldn't get his place immortalised in it. Nobody got what they really wanted.

He'd royally, royally screwed everything up. As he leant back, a silver flash caught his attention. A switchblade.

Picking up the knife, Jerome flicked it open, admiring the way the blade caught the light. He caught sight of his mouth in the metal, the curling scars up to his ears almost naked now. Most of the red was gone, transferred.

God, even just thinking of the stain across Bruce's mouth made his cock twitch. The way those hooded eyes had stared up at him like he was the only thing tying Bruce down to reality. Stop it. Jerome closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, and rested his forehead against the hand holding the blade. It didn't cut him, but the hard handle digging into his skull grounded him. Jerome needed to do something. Go somewhere.

The police would be here soon, Christ, he needed to move. Somehow, he couldn't will his body to even tense. He'd lived so long with a purpose, with a goal in mind, that without it, Jerome felt lost. A red light on the console in front of him pulsed. It was the perimeter alarm.

So, the police were finally here to take him away, to lock him up in Arkham deeper than he'd been before. They could. It didn't matter. He wouldn't even struggle.

"Jerome", a familiar voice that sent a lurch of longing to his very core called out from behind him, and the Joker turned. As soon as Jerome had swivelled the chair halfway, Batman was darting towards him. Jerome did nothing as the switchblade was snatched from his hands, and he was dragged to his feet. Bruce looked horrified, and Jerome caught up, "Wha- No, uh, I wasn't about to slit my wrists or anything, Batsy. Jeez, a bit melodramatic today are we?".

Bruce sucked in air, sagging slightly as he dropped Jerome back into the chair. Jerome didn't know what to say. He'd cut and run for this very reason. After a second, Bruce broke the silence, "Why'd you leave?". Jerome barked out a self-depreciative laugh, "Brucie, I'd just pushed you down and molested you. The billionaire Bruce Wayne and the Batman at the same time. Didn't particularly want to have that conversation".

Bruce sighed, staring down at the Joker with something strangely akin to exasperation, before looking away, "When I was twelve, you were my hero", he stated calmly, "Yeah I liked all the vigilantes in other cities, but you, Jerome, you were the flesh and blood representation of everything I wanted to be". Jerome twitched, "What a great role model I turned out to be". Bruce ignored the cut in, "I was just a kid. Kids see in black and white, and I'd never had a friend before, I didn't know what to do with those unknown feelings".

Jerome looked up at that, almost sadly, but Bruce continued, "I hadn't ever loved anyone either, not like that. I'd loved my parents, of course, but at twelve, attraction was a completely foreign concept. I didn't recognise it when it happened". Jerome frowned, not sure where this conversation was going.

Bruce finally turned to him, "I found it, by the way, your-", his voice cracked slightly, "Your suicide note".

Jerome avoided Bruce's eyes as the vigilante continued, "Jerome, please. Just tell me the truth".

Jerome rolled his shoulders, and stared at the ceiling. Bruce preferred Jerome without all the makeup, he just wished he could wipe away the black from his eyes and the green from his hair. "You want all the gory details, right from the beginning?", Jerome asked quietly, and Bruce nodded.

"Okay".

•

When Jerome finally finished, he didn't look at the other man. He stared at the ceiling, layers peeled away and stripped bare. He'd never felt so exposed in his life. All his reasoning, every single thought process spread out for Bruce's scrutinisation.

The masked man finally spoke, "Do you know why I told you about my views of you as a child? Because even then, a small part of me wouldn't let go of Jerome Valeska. Through the years, even when I went away to train, I couldn't let you go. When you killed your mother and came to me, I-". Bruce broke off, before clearing his throat to continue, "I couldn't understand why you would do that. I couldn't understand why everyone I cared about ended up worse off after I got involved with them. You were this pinnacle of intelligence and strength, then I got mixed up with you, and you ended up beaten up, in trouble with your family and then killed your mother. Then you told me you did it for me! You told a twelve year old boy who thought the world revolved around you that you'd murdered your mother to protect me!".

Jerome didn't say anything, "I blamed myself. Pulled away and tried to give you the best shot without me". Bruce huffed out a strained laugh, "Look how that ended up. Anyway, my point is you never stopped to ask me what I wanted. You made all these stupid assumptions about what was best for me, what I needed, but you never asked". Bruce turned to look at Jerome, "Did it really never occur to you that the enamoured little rich boy maybe just wanted the same thing as you?".

Jerome's chest tightened, "You don't mean that". He muttered quietly, trying to crush the stuttering in his veins. This was dangerous, Bruce held the upper hand, he had the ace up his sleeve. Bruce knew Jerome's secrets.

Bruce sighed, "I'm not in love with you, Jerome. I was too scared to even place the connotations of my childhood friend to you after what you did to all those people. But you were just stupid. Trying to fight the same battle as me but in your own, misguided way. I don't agree with you, and I'm angry. But that's not me saying I can't".

"It's going to be difficult. It's going to be messy and secret and hard, but we could try. I owe the Jerome Valeska I knew at least that much", Bruce said seriously.

Jerome didn't know what he was hearing, but he felt lighter, better than he had in eight years. Like he had a new purpose. A teasing, soft grin carded through his cheeks, "My favourite kind of difficult", he said roughly.

Bruce carefully pulled his cowl over his head, eyes on the man opposite him, "One last thing, when I asked you before, you said you were doing this for evil, and even before that, in the bank, you said it again. Were you just lying?". Jerome looked up at him funnily, a small smile flittng across his lips, "Nope, I was telling the truth, just telling it backwards. You're really not very good at word games, are you sugar?".

Bruce frowned, "What?", Jerome stepped forwards, a playful smirk spreading across his face as he shortened the gap between them, "Evol, Brucie, It's Love spelt backwards".

•

"Hey, Brucey baby, do you like the black one or the purple one?", Jerome called out from his place in front of the mirror in the master bedroom of Wayne Manor.

Bruce was stood beside the sink in the master bathroom, carefully drawing a razor up the line of his throat, "Uh, I don't know. The black one?", he yelled back. Jerome strolled into the bathroom, draping himself across Bruce's broad shoulders with a sigh, watching them both in the mirror. "You always pick the black one", he grumbled mildly.

Bruce smiled, turning his head to nuzzle into Jerome's hair. It was shorter now, and back to its gorgeous red colour, and along with the distinct lack of any makeup on the older man's face, Bruce thought he was perfect.

It had been three months. Three months since Gotham City had read, seen and heard about the Batman stealing the Joker out from within police gunfire, and whisked him off to God knows where. Two months later, Bruce Wayne had announced his scandalous, homosexual love affair with a male lover he'd met whilst on one of his extravagant cruises abroad.

Unsurprisingly, the press had no idea. They drank in the spun tale of Jerome's tragic scarring, and after some judging assurances that the scars were disturbingly common in urban gangs in England and a promise of an interview from Jerome, they ran off to write highly complimentary articles on the couple's disreputable private lives.

Jerome had loved it.

"Did you hear?", Jerome muttered into Bruce's ear, his lips brushing the shell as he locked their gaze in the mirror, making the other man shudder, "People are saying that the Batman talked the Joker down on the night with all the fires. That he managed to negotiate with the criminal, get him to stand down for good". Bruce raised an eyebrow, "Hmm. What do you think", Jerome licked his lips lavicioisly, "I think the Joker got the better deal".

Bruce huffed a laugh, "I don't know about that", Jerome pulled on a facade of utmost sincerity, "Oh, well, clearly you haven't heard what they've been saying about the Batman's physique. All that Lycra, it doesn't leave much to the imagination".

Bruce turned around, "You know what? I think it would be a bad idea to turn up to this dinner on time. Too out of character for Bruce Wayne". Jerome nodded sincerely, "Ooh, yes. Don't want anyone to realise that the disreputable Bruce Wayne might not be as lowly as he pretends". Bruce pushed Jerome out into the bedroom, and down onto the still-mussed sheets.

Jerome spread his legs, letting Bruce settle into his contours. Bruce leant up on his elbows, surveying the body spread out beneath him, "Look at you", he rumbled, "All wrapped up nicely for me". Jerome lifted an eyebrow, "So that's how this is going to be? Fine, I'll roll over this time. Don't get used to it". Bruce leant down to suck along Jerome's pulse, enjoying the hitch of breath it coaxed from him. "Don't worry about that, I don't think that's possible", he murmured against Jerome's neck.

Bruce undid the buttons down Jerome's shirt as he moved southwards, letting his mouth trail a wet stripe down the other man's chest after his hands. Jerome groaned as Bruce lathered open mouthed kisses into his navel, letting his hands sink into dark locks as the man above him deftly undid his fly, and sank down on his heavy cock.

Jerome sighed blissfully as Bruce swirled his tongue around the organ, whimpering when teeth scraped over the head. God, he would never get used to this. Bruce begun to bob his head, and Jerome's abs curled. He leant over Bruce, holding on for dear life as the talented mouth wiped all thoughts other than, _more_ and _please_ from his mind.

He felt Bruce's lips curl smugly around his cock when one of those words escaped his mouth. Jerome couldn't have that now, could he? Jerome pulled Bruce off him by his hair, cock twitching when his lover slurped as he was dragged off. A trail of spit linked those perfectly full, red lips to the plump head of Jerome's erection, and Bruce's hooded eyes stared up at him like he was the only thing worth looking at. It was almost too much. Jerome dragged those lips up so he could bite and suck them into his mouth, tasting himself on Bruce's tongue.

Blindly, Jerome searched out the plain bottle they kept on the nightstand with one hand, whilst battling to undo Bruce's shirt as quickly as possible with the other. The smooth plastic bumped into his palm, and Jerome thrust the bottle at his lover, " Hurry up", he ground out, "Unless you want me to come when you're not inside me".

Bruce groaned, grabbing the bottle and slicking up his fingers on one hand, slowly stroking Jerome's cock with the other. Jerome shook his head, "No, I'm still loose from last night. Just, ugh, just do it, please", Bruce let out another desperate, low moan, as Jerome writhed. "You are going to be the death of me", he said as he rapidly slicked up his cock, and rubbed it against Jerome's entrance.

Jerome pressed back desperately. He needed Bruce to fuck him before he came, he wanted it with every cell in his body. Before he could voice his concerns, Bruce shoved inside him with one hard thrust. Jerome's hands shot up to grasp the headboard. Not as loose as he'd thought then. He didn't mind though, especially not when Bruce began to move.

He felt so full, every single thrust was hard enough to push him up the bed whilst simultaneously pummelling his prostate, and low moans ripped their way from his throat. Bruce shoved his hands beneath Jerome's shoulders, using it as extra leverage to plow harder and further into Jerome's body.

Bruce was grunting with the effort, pressing their slick chests together and trapping Jerome's leaking cock between their stomachs to rub almost too deliciously in the hot friction.

Jerome was close, "B-Bruce", he gasped breathlessly, unable to manage any more through his pleasure-wreaked brain. He didn't need to, Bruce simply sped up his thrusts, muscles tensing headily against the pliant body beneath him, and Jerome choked desperately as his orgasm hit him like a freight train.

Hot, thick cum shot up their chests, and Jerome tightened sporadically. Bruce let out a low curse, and gave one last thrust with all his strength, before he shot deep into his lover. The feeling of the shooting hot cum inside had Jerome crying out and setting off one last weak pulse of cum, before Bruce collapsed on top of him.

Heavy pants filled the room for a few minutes as the two men settled into their afterglow. Bruce found the strength to roll sideways, landing on his back next to Jerome. They lay there, panting at the ceiling, until Jerome curled onto his side and nuzzles into the firm body beside him, "How late can we be", he murmured huskily, dragging his fingers through the cum across Bruce's chest.

Bruce grasped his wrist, pulling the dripping fingers up to his mouth and sucking them clean, "I think we have time for round two", he rumbled from around the long digits, and Jerome smirked, rolling Bruce onto his back, "Sure thing sugar, but it's my turn on top".

FIN


	11. AUTHORS NOTE - YOU WILL WANT TO READ!!

Hey!

Sorry for making you all think I was uploading a new chapter, but I couldn't think of another way of telling you all about this, and you will want to know this.  
Trust me, read this article:

http://www.ibtimes.co.uk/watch-gotham-season-2-episode-4-live-online-you-have-not-seen-last-jerome-teases-producer-1523552

Uh, spoilers? I guess? But they're the sort of spoilers one needs.' It' hasn't come out yet, but I sleep better knowing it will :3  
Oh producers, you have won back my trust, and I love you a lot more now, and for you guys - You're welcome ;)

Thank you all for reading this and getting it out there, I really appreciate it,

Much, much love,

Sketch

 

P.S. If any of you have been reading or talking to me in the comments, the promise I made will happen as soon as Gotham gives me what they said they would ;)


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